Sir  J aiue$  Matthew  Barrie  was  born' In 
Klrrtemuir,  Scotland,  on  May  9,  I860.  He 
was  educated  at  Dumfries  academy  and 
at  Edinburgh  university,  where  h«  re- 
ceived an  M.  A.  degree.  Although  he 
was  destined  for  the  teaching  profes- 
sion by  his  parents,  he  had  ambitions  to 
write,  and  somewhat  Inevitably  Joined 
the  staff  of  a  Nottingham  daily. 

[t  appears  that  Barrie  was  unpopular 
with  his  fellow  scribes,  for  the  reason 
that  his  as  yet  unconquered  timidity  and 
reserve  and  his  abstemious  habits  kept 
him  from  making  friends  with  them.  He 
occupied  his  leisure  and  much  of  hia 
sleeping  time  with  writing.  He  sent 
sketches  to  London  papers,  and  when 
they  finally  got  to  be  accepted  more  or 
less  regularly,  he  went  to  the  capital 
and  found  employment  as  London  cor- 
respondent of  the  Edinburgh  Dispatch. 

In  London  he  had  a  few  lean  years,  In 
which  he  lived  in  a  garret.  His  first 
novel,  a  sentimental  piece  about  water- 
cress and  a  shipwreck,  failed  to  Interest 
the  publishers  and  it  yet  remains  In 
manuscript.  His  first  published  novel, 
"  Better  Dead,"  did  not  attract  atten- 
tion ;  but  when  "  Auld  Llcht  Idylls  "  was 
published  Barrie  became  a  personage. 


Barrie  (or  Sir  James,  s!nc«  1913,  when 
he  was  honored  with  a  baronetcy) 
achieved  his  first  stage  success  with 
"  Walker,  London,"  In  which  Mls,e  Mary 
Ansell  made  her  debut  as  a  star.  Miss 
Arisell  shortly  afterward  became  Mrs. 
Barrie.  They  had  no  children  and  lived 
In  apparent  happiness  until  1908,  when 
Gilbert  Cannan,  a  young  novelist  and 
j  playwright,  at  Barrie's  Invitation  came 
1  to  live  at  the  Barrie  home.  Cannan  was 
ostensibly  employed  as  his  benefactor's 
secretary,  but  actually  was  given  a 
home  and  leisure  for  writing,  because  of 
Barrie's  Interest  in  the  young  man's 
abilities. 

Mrs.  Barrie  also  interested  herself  In 
Cannan  and  later  admitted  to  her  hus- 
band that  she  loved  the  younger  man. 
Barrie  offered  to  forgive  all  If  she  would 
renounce  Cannan.  '  She  refused.  He  ap- 
n'.ied  for  a  divorce.  There  was  a  ma, 
testimony  as  to  misconduct  on  the  part 
of  Mrs.  Barrie  and  Cannan,  but  the  judge 
'topped  the  proceedings  early  to  avoid 
further  scandal  and  granted  the  divorce. 
Mrs.  Barrie  and  Cannan  were  married. 
Barrie  gave  the  couple  a  Louse  and  a 
large  sum  9f  money. 

Cannan's  version  of  the  affair  Is  re- 
lated In  his  novel,  "  Peter  Homunculus." 
The  married  life  of  Cannan  and  Mrs. 
Barrie  was  stormy  and  short  lived. 
After  she  had  nursed  him  through  a  seri- 
ous illness,  he  said  he  wanted  no  more 
to  do  with  her,  that  she  was  a  drag  upon 
his  career,  and  admitted  infidelity  to  her 
In.  Barrie-Cannan  then  sued  for  and 
«-on  restitution  of  conjugal  rights  Ru- 
mors have  It  that  Sir  James  and  his 
former  wife  are  often  seen  together  now 
that  they  may  be  remarried. 


A 
J 


A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 


BY  J.  M.  BARRIE, 

duthor  of  " 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY,  PUBLISHERS, 
52-58  DUANE  STEEET,  NEW  YORK. 


:TESSE 

Y  SYBIT 
D.. 


SELENE  JOHNSON 

VYN  STRATFORD 

...JANE  HAVEN 

LFRED  PINNER 

.A.  O.  HUH  AN 

JOHN  TAYLOR 

,RGE  A.  WARD 

~ 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTBX  PAGE 

I.— The  House  on  the  Brae 7 

II. — On  the  Track  of  the  Minister 15 

III. — Preparing  to  Receive  Company 22 

•  IV.— Waiting  for  the  Doctor 28 

V. — A  Humorist  on  His  Calling 36 

VI. — Dead  This  Twenty  Years 45 

VII.— The  Statement  of  Tibbie  Birse 55 

VIII.— A  Cloak  with  Beads 62 

IX. — The  Power  of  Beauty 72 

X. — A  Magnum  Opus 78 

XL— The  Ghost  Cradle 84 

XII.— The  Tragedy  of  a  Wife 93 

XIII.— Making  the  Best  of  It 100 

XIV. — Visitors  at  the  Manse 107 

XV. — How  Gavin  Birse  put  it  to  Mag  Lownie 115 

XVI. — The  Son  from  London 123 

XVII. — A  Home  for  Geniuses 135 

XVIIL— Leeby  and  Jamie 141 

XIX.— The  Tale  of  a  Glove 151 

XX.— The  Last  Night 160 

XXL— Jess  Left  Alone 168 

XXII.— Jamie's  Home-Coming. 175 


A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  HOUSE  ON  THE  BRAE, 

ON  the  bump  of  green  round  which  the  brae 
twists,  at  the  top  of  the  brae,  and  within  cry  of 
T'nowhead  Farm,  still  stands  a  one-story  house, 
whose  whitewashed  walls,  streaked  with  the  dis- 
coloration that  rain  leaves,  look  yellow  when  the 
snow  comes.  In  the  old  days  the  stiff  ascent  left 
Thrums  behind,  and  where  is  now  the  making  of 
a  suburb  was  only  a  poor  row  of  dwellings  and  a 
manse,  with  Hendry's  cot  to  watch  the  brae. 
The  house  stood  bare,  without  a  shrub,  in  a  gar- 
den whose  paling  did  not  go  all  the  way  round, 
the  potato  pit  being  only  kept  out  of  the  road, 
that  here  sets  off  southward,  by  a  broken  dyke  of 
stones  and  earth.  On  each  side  of  the  slate- 
colored  door  was  a  window  of  knotted  glass. 
Ropes  were  flung  over  the  thatch  to  keep  the  roof 
on  in  wind, 

7 


8  A   WINDOW  IN- THRUMS. 

Into  this  humble  abode  I  would  take  any  one 
who  cares  to  accompany  me.  But  you  must  not 
come  in  a  contemptuous  mood,  thinking  that  the 
poor  are  but  a  stage  removed  from  beasts  of  bur- 
den, as  some  cruel  writers  of  these  days  say  ;  nor 
will  I  have  you  turn  over  with  your  foot  the 
shabby  horse-hair  chairs  that  Leeby  kept  so  speck- 
less,  and  Hendry  weaved  for  years  to  buy,  and 
Jess  so  loved  to  look  upon. 

I  speak  of  the  chairs,  but  if  we  go  together  into 
the  "room  "  they  will  not  be  visible  to  you.  For 
a  long  time  the  house  has  been  to  let.  Here,  on 
the  left  of  the  doorway,  as  we  enter,  is  the  room, 
without  a  shred  of  furniture  in  it  except  the  boards 
of  two  closed-in  beds.  The  flooring  is  not  steady, 
and  here  and  there  holes  have  been  eaten  into  the 
planks.  You  can  scarcely  stand  upright  beneath 
the  decaying  ceiling.  Worn  boards  and  ragged 
walls,  and  the  rusty  ribs  fallen  from  the  fireplace, 
are  all  that  meet  your  eyes,  but  I  see  a  round,  un- 
steady, waxcloth-covered  table,  with  four  books 
lying  at  equal  distances  on  it.  There  are  six  prim 
chairs,  two  of  them  not  to  be  sat  upon,  backed 
against  the  walls,  and  between  the  window  and 
the  fireplace  a  chest  of  drawers,  with  a  snowy 
coverlet.  On  the  drawers  stands  a  board  with 
colored  marbles  for  the  game  of  solitaire,  and  I 
have  only  to  open  the  drawer  with  the  loose 
handle  to  bring  out  the  dambrod.  In  the  carved 
wood  frame  over  the  window  hangs  Jamie's  por- 


A    WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  9 

trait ;  in  the  only  other  frame  a  picture  of  Daniel 
in  the  den  of  lions,  sewn  by  Leeby  in  wool.  Over 
the  chimney-piece  with  its  shells,  in  which  the 
roar  of  the  sea  can  be  heard,  are  strung  three  rows 
of  birds'  eggs.  Once  again  we  might  be  expect- 
ing company  to  tea. 

The  passage  is  narrow.  There  is  a  square  hole 
between  the  rafters,  and  a  ladder  leading  up  to  it. 
You  may  climb  and  look  into  the  attic,  as  Jess 
liked  to  hear  me  call  my  tiny  garret-room.  I  am 
stiffer  now  than  in  the  days  when  I  lodged  with 
Jess  during  the  summer  holiday  I  am  trying  to 
bring  back,  and  there  is  no  need  for  me  to  ascend. 
Do  not  laugh  at  the  newspapers  with  which  Leeby 
papered  the  garret,  nor  at  the  yarn  Hendry 
stuffed  into  the  windy  holes.  He  did  it  to  warm 
the  house  for  Jess.  But  the  paper  must  have  gone 
to  pieces  and  the  yarn  rotted  decades  ago. 

I  have  kept  the  kitchen  for  the  last,  as  Jamie 
did  on  the  dire  day  of  which  I  shall  have  to  tell. 
It  has  a  flooring  of  stone  now,  where  there  used 
only  to  be  hard  earth,  and  a  broken  pane  in  the 
window  is  indifferently  stuffed  with  rags.  But  it 
is  the  other  window  I  turn  to,  with  a  pain  at  my 
heart,  and  pride  and  fondness  too,  the  square  foot 
of  glass  where  Jess  sat  in  her  chair  and  looked 
down  the  brae. 

Ah,  that  brae  !  The  history  of  tragic  little 
Thrums  is  sunk  into  it  like  the  stones  it  swallows 
in  the  winter.  We  have  all  found  the  brae  long 


10  A   WIN  DO  IV  IN  THRUMS. 

and  steep  in  the  spring  of  life.  Do  you  remember 
how  the  child  you  once  were  sat  at  the  foot  of  it 
and  wondered  if  a  new  world  began  at  the  top  ? 
It  climbs  from  a  shallow  burn,  and  we  used  to 
sit  on  the  brig  a  long  time  before  venturing  to 
climb.  As  boys  we  ran  up  the  brae.  As  men 
and  women,  young  and  in  our  prime,  we  almost 
forgot  that  it  was  there.  But  the  autumn  of  life 
comes,  and  the  brae  grows  steeper ;  then  the 
winter,  and  once  again  we  are  as  the  child  paus- 
ing apprehensively  on  the  brig.  Yet  are  we  no 
longer  the  child  ;  we  look  now  for  no  new  world 
at  the  top,  only  for  a  little  garden  and  a  tiny 
house,  and  a  hand-loom  in  the  house.  It  is  only 
a  garden  of  kail  and  potatoes,  but  there  may  be 
a  line  of  daisies,  white  and  red,  on  each  side  of 
the  narrow  footpath,  and  honeysuckle  over  the 
door.  Life  is  not  always  hard,  even  after  backs 
grow  bent,  and  we  know  that  all  braes  lead  only 
to  the  grave. 

This  is  Jess'  window.  For  more  than  twenty 
years  she  had  not  been  able  to  go  so  far  as  the 
door,  and  only  once  while  I  knew  her  was  she 
ben  in  the  room.  With  her  husband,  Hendry,  or 
their  only  daughter,  Leeby,  to  lean  upon,  and 
her  hand  clutching  her  staff,  she  took  twice  a. 
day,  when  she  was  strong,  the  journey  between 
her  bed  and  the  window  where  stood  her  chair. 
She  did  not  lie  there  looking  at  the  sparrows  or 
at  Leeby  redding  up  the  house,  and  I  hardly  ever 


A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  n 

heard  her  complain.  All  the  sewing  was  done 
by  her  ;  she  often  baked  on  a  table  pushed  close 
to  the  window,  and  by  leaning  forward  she  could 
stir  the  porridge.  Leeby  was  seldom  off  her  feet, 
but  I  do  not  know  that  she  did  more  than  Jess, 
who  liked  to  tell  me,  when  she  had  a  moment  to 
spare,  that  she  had  a  terrible  lot  to  be  thankful 
for. 

To  those  who  dwell  in  great  cities  Thrums  is 
only  a  small  place,  but  what  a  clatter  of  life  it 
has  for  me  when  I  come  to  it  from  my  school- 
house  in  the  glen.  Had  my  lot  been  cast  in  a 
town  I  would  no  doubt  have  sought  country  parts 
during  my  September  holiday,  but  the  school- 
house  is  quiet  even  when  the  summer  takes  brakes 
full  of  sportsmen  and  others  past  the  top  of  my 
footpath,  and  I  was  always  light-hearted  when 
Craigiebuckle's  cart  bore  me  into  the  din  of 
Thrums.  I  only  once  stayed  during  the  whole 
of  my  holiday  at  the  house  on  the  brae,  but  I 
knew  its  inmates  for  many  years,  including 
Jamie,  the  son,  who  was  a  barber  in  London.  Of 
their  ancestry  I  never  heard.  With  us  it  was  only 
some  of  the  articles  of  furniture,  or  perhaps  a 
snuff-mull,  that  had  a  genealogical  tree.  In  the 
house  on  the  brae  was  a  great  kettle,  called  the 
boiler,  that  was  said  to  be  fifty  years  old  in  the  days 
of  Hendry's  grandfather,  of  whom  nothing  more 
is  known.  Jess'  chair,  which  had  carved  arms 
and  a  seat  stuffed  with  rags,  had  been  Snecky 


12  A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

Hobart's  father's  before  it  was  hers,  and  old  Snecky 
bought  it  at  a  roup  in  the  Tenements.  Jess' 
rarest  possession  was,  perhaps,  the  christening 
robe  that  even  people  at  a  distance  came  to  bor- 
row. Her  mother  could  count  up  a  hundred  per- 
sons who  had  been  baptized  in  it. 

Every  one  of  the  hundred,  I  believe,  is  dead, 
and  even  I  cannot  now  pick  out  Jess  and  Hendry's 
grave  ;  but  I  heard  recently  that  the  christening 
robe  is  still  in  use.  It  is  strange  that  I  should  still 
be  left  after  so  many  changes,  one  of  the  three  or 
four  who  can  to-day  stand  on  the  brae  and  point 
out  Jess'  window.  The  little  window  commands 
the  incline  to  the  point  where  the  brae  suddenly 
jerks  out  of  sight  in  its  climb  down  into  the  town. 
The  steep  path  up  the  commonty  makes  for  this 
elbow  of  the  brae  ;  and  thus,  whichever  way  the 
traveller  takes,  it  is  here  that  he  comes  first  into 
sight  of  the  window.  Here,  too,  those  who  go  to 
the  town  from  the  south  get  their  first  glimpse  of 
Thrums. 

Carts  pass  up  and  down  the  brae  every  few 
minutes,  and  there  comes  an  occasional  gig. 
Seldom  is  the  brae  empty,  for  many  live  beyond 
the  top  of  it  now,  and  men  and  women  go  by  to 
their  work,  children  to  school  or  play.  Not  one 
of  the  children  I  see  from  the  window  to-day  is 
known  to  me,  and  most  of  the  men  and  women 
I  only  recognize  by  their  likeness  to  their  parents. 
That  sweet-faced  old  woman  with  the  shawl  on 


A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  13 

her  shoulders  may  be  one  of  the  girls  who  was 
playing  at  the  game  of  palaulays  when  Jamie 
stole  into  Thrums  for  the  last  time  ;  the  man  who 
is  leaning  on  the  commonty  gate  gathering  breath 
for  the  last  quarter  of  the  brae  may,  as  a  bare- 
footed callant,  have  been  one  of  those  who  chased 
Cree  Queery  past  the  poor-house.  I  cannot  say  ; 
but  this  I  know,  that  the  grandparents  of  most  of 
these  boys  and  girls  were  once  young  with  me. 
If  I  see  the  sons  and  daughters  of  my  friends 
grown  old,  I  also  see  the  grandchildren  spinning 
the  peerie  and  hunkering  at  I-dree-I-dree — I- 
droppit-it — as  we  did  so  long  ago.  The  world 
remains  as  young  as  ever.  The  lovers  that  met 
on  the  commonty  in  the  gloaming  are  gone,  but 
there  are  other  lovers  to  take  their  place,  and 
still  the  commonty  is  here.  The  sun  had  sunk  on 
a  fine  day  in  June,  early  in  the  century,  when 
Hendry  and  Jess,  newly  married,  he  in  a  rich 
moleskin  waistcoat,  she  in  a  white  net  cap, 
walked  to  the  house  on  the  brae  that  was  to  be 
their  home.  So  Jess  has  told  me.  Here  again 
has  been  just  such  a  day,  and  somewhere  in 
Thrums  there  may  be  just  such  a  couple,  setting 
out  for  their  home  behind  a  horse  with  white  ears 
instead  of  walking,  but  with  the  same  hopes  and 
fears,  and  the  same  lovelight  in  their  eyes.  The 
world  does  not  age.  The  hearse  passes  over  the 
brae  and  up  the  straight  burying-ground  road, 
but  still  there  is  a  cry  for  the  christening  robe. 


I4  A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

Jess'  window  was  a  beacon  by  night  to  travel- 
lers in  the  dark,  and  it  will  be  so  in  the  future 
when  there  are  none  to  remember  Jess.  There 
are  many  such  windows  still,  with  loving  faces 
behind  them.  From  them  we  watch  for  the 
friends  and  relatives  who  are  coming  back,  and 
some,  alas  !  watch  in  vain.  Not  every  one  re- 
turns who  takes  the  elbow  of  the  brae  bravely,  or 
waves  his  handkerchief  to  those  who  watch  from 
the  window  with  wet  eyes,  and  some  return  too 
late.  To  Jess,  at  her  window  always  when  she 
was  not  in  bed,  things  happy  and  mournful  and 
terrible  came  into  view.  At  this  window  she  sat 
for  twenty  years  or  more  looking  at  the  world  as 
through  a  telescope  ;  and  here  an  awful  ordeal 
was  gone  through  after  her  sweet,  untarnished 
soul  had  been  given  back  to  God. 


A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  15 


CHAPTER  IL 

ON  THE  TRACK   OF  THE   MINISTER. 

ON  the  afternoon  of  the  Saturday  that  carted 
me  and  my  two  boxes  to  Thrums,  I  was  ben  in 
the  room  playing  Hendry  at  the  dambrod.  I  had 
one  of  the  room  chairs,  but  Leeby  brought  a  chair 
from  the  kitchen  for  her  father.  Our  door  stood 
open,  and  as  Hendry  often  pondered  for  two 
minutes  with  his  hand  on  a  "man,"  I  could  have 
joined  in  the  gossip  that  was  going  on  but  the 
house. 

"Ay,  weel,  then,  Leeby,"  said  Jess,  suddenly, 
"I'll  warrant  the  minister  '11  no  be  preachin'  the 
morn. " 

This  took  Leeby  to  the  window. 

"Yea,  yea,"  she  said  (and  I  knew  she  was 
nodding  her  head  sagaciously) ;  I  looked  out  at 
the  room  window,  but  all  I  could  see  was  a  man 
wheeling  an  empty  barrow  down  the  brae, 

"That's  Robbie  Tosh,"  continued  Leeby,  "  an' 
there's  nae  doot  'at  he's  makkin'  for  the  minister's, 
for  he  has  on  his  black  coat.  He'll  be  to  row  the 
minister's  luggage  to  the  post-cart  Ay,  an'  that's 
Davit  Lunan's  barrow.  I  ken  it  by  the  shaft's 


Z6  A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

bein'  spliced  wi'  yarn.  Davit  broke  the  shaft  at 
the  saw-mill " 

"  He'll  be  gaen  away  for  a  curran  (number  of) 
days,"  said  Jess,  "or  he  would  juist  hae  taen  his 
bag.  Ay,  he'll  be  awa  to  Edinbory,  to  see  the 
lass." 

"  I  wonder  wha'll  be  to  preach  the  morn — tod, 
it'll  likely  be  Mr.  Skinner,  frae  Dundee ;  him  an' 
the  minister's  chief,  ye  ken." 

"Ye  micht  gang  up  to  the  attic,  Leeby,  an' see 
if  the  spare  bedroom  vent  (chimney)  at  the  manse 
is  gaen.  We're  sure,  if  it's  Mr.  Skinner,  he'll 
come  wi'  the  post  frae  Tilliedrum  the  nicht,  an' 
sleep  at  the  manse." 

"Weel,  I  assure  ye,"  said  Leeby,  descending 
from  the  attic,  "it'll  no  be  Mr.  Skinner,  for  no 
only  is  the  spare  bedroom  vent  no  gaen,  but  the 
blind's  drawn  doon  frae  tap  to  fut,  so  they're  no 
even  airin'  the  room.  Na,  it  canna  be  him  ;  an' 
what's  mair,  it'll  be  naebody  'at's  to  bide  a'  nicht 
at  the  manse." 

"  I  wouldna  say  that  ;  na,  na.  It  may  only 
be  a  student ;  an'  Marget  Dundas  (the  minister's 
mother  and  housekeeper)  michtna  think  it  neces- 
sary to  put  on  a  fire  for  him. " 

"Tod,  I'll  tell  ye  wha  it'll  be.  I  wonder  I 
didna  think  o'  'im  sooner.  It'll  be  the  lad  Wilkie  ; 
him  'at's  mither  mairit  on  Sam'l  Duthie's  wife's 
brither.  They  bide  in  Cupar,  an'  I  mind  'at  when 
the  son  was  here  twa  or  three  year  syne  he  was 


A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  if 

juist  gaen  to  begin  the  diveenity  classes  in 
Glesca. " 

"  If  that's  so,  Leeby,  he  would  be  sure  to  bide 
wi'  Sam'l.  Hendry,  hae  ye  heard  'at  Sam'l 
Duthie's  expeckin'  a  stranger  the  nicht  ?  " 

"Haud  yer  tongue,"  replied  Hendry,  who  was 
having  the  worst  of  the  game. 

"Ay,  but  I  ken  he  is,  "said  Leeby  triumphantly 
to  her  mother,  "for  ye  mind  when  I  was  in  at 
Johnny  Watt's  (the  draper's)  Chirsty  (Sam'l's  wife) 
was  buy  in'  twa  yards  of  chintz,  an  I  couldna 
think  what  she  would  be  wantin'  't  for  !  " 

"I  thocht  Johnny  said  to  ye 'at  it  was  fora 
present  to  Chirsty 's  auntie  ? " 

"  Ay,  but  he  juist  guessed  that ;  for,  though  he 
tried  to  get  oot  o'  Chirsty  what  she  wanted  the 
chintz  for,  she  wouldna  tell  'im.  But  I  see  noo 
what  she  was  after.  The  lad  Wilkie  '11  be  to  bide 
wi'  them,  and  Chirsty  had  bocht  the  chintz  to 
cover  the  arm-chair  wi'.  It's  ane  o'  thae  hair- 
bottomed  chairs,  but  terrible  torn,  so  she'll  hae 
covered  it  for  'im  to  sit  on. " 

"  I  wouldna  wonder  but  ye're  richt,  Leeby  ;  for 
Chirsty  would  be  in  an  oncommon  fluster  if  she 
thocht  the  lad's  mither  was  likely  to  hear  'at  her 
best  chair  was  torn.  Ay,  ay,  bein'  a  man,  he 
wouldna  think  to  tak  aff  the  chintz  an'  hae  a  look 
at  the  chair  withoot  it. " 

Here  Hendry,  who  had  paid  no  attention  to 
the  conversation,  broke  in  : 

2 


l8  A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

"Was  ye  speirin'  had  I  seen  Sam'l  Duthie?  I 
•aw  'im  yesterday  buyin'  a  fender  at  Will'um 
Crook's  roup." 

"A  fender  !  Ay,  ay,  that  settles  the  queistion," 
said  Leeby ;  "  I'll  warrant  the  fender  as  for 
Chirsty's  parlor.  It's  preyed  on  Chirsty's  mind, 
they  say,  this  fower-and-thirty  year  'at  she  doesna 
hae  a  richt  parlor  fender." 

"Leeby,  look!  That's  Robbie  Tosh  wi'  the 
barrow.  He  has  a  michty  load  o'  luggage.  Am 
thinkin'  the  minister's  bound  for  Tilliedrum. " 

"Na,  he's  no,  he's  gaen  to  Edinbory,  as  ye 
micht  ken  by  the  bandbox.  That'll  be  his 
Blither's  bonnet  he's  takkin'  back  to  get  altered. 
Ye'll  mind  she  was  never  pleased  wi'  the  set  o' 
the  flowers. " 

"Weel,  weel,  here  comes  the  minister  himsel', 
an'  very  snod  he  is.  Ay,  Marget's  been  puttin' 
new  braid  on  his  coat,  an'  he's  carryin'  the  sma' 
black  bag  he  bocht  in  Dundee  last  year  :  he'll 
hae's  nicht-shirt  an'  a  comb  in't,  I  dinna  doot. 
Ye  micht  rin  to  the  corner,  Leeby,  an'  see  if  he 
cries  in  at  Jess  McTaggart's  in  passin'. " 

"It's  my  opeenion,"  said  Leeby,  returning 
excitedly  from  the  corner,  ' '  'at  the  lad  Wilkie's 
no  to  be  preachin'  the  morn,  after  a'.  When  I 
gangs  to  the  corner,  at  ony  rate,  what  think 
ye's  the  first  thing  I  see  but  the  minister  an' 
Sam!  Duthie  meetin'  face  to  face  ?  Ay,  weel, 
it's  gospel  am  tellin'  ye  when  I  say  as  Sam'l 


A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  19 

flung  back  his  head  an'  walkit  richt  by  the 
minister  1  " 

' '  Losh  keep's  a',  Leeby  ;  ye  say  that  ?  They 
maun  hae  haen  a  quarrel." 

"I'm  thinkin'  we'll  hae  Mr.  Skinner  i'  the 
poopit  the  morn  after  a'." 

"It  may  be,  it  may  be.  Ay,  ay,  look,  Leeby, 
whatna  bit  kimmer's  that  wi'  the  twa  jugs  in  her 
hand?  " 

"Eh!  Ou,  it'll  be  Lawyer  Ogilvy's  servant 
lassieky  gaen  to  the  farm  o'  T'nowhead  for  the 
milk.  She  gangs  ilka  Saturday  nicht.  But  what 
did  ye  say — twa  jugs  ?  Tod,  let's  see  !  Ay,  she 
has  so,  a  big  jug  an'  a  little  ane.  The  little  ane  '11 
be  for  cream  ;  an',  sal,  the  big  ane's  bigger  na 
usual." 

"There  maun  be  something  gaen  on  at  the 
lawyer's  if  they're  buyin'  cream,  Leeby.  Their 
reg'lar  thing's  twopence  worth  o'  milk." 

"Ay,  but  I  assure  ye  that  sma'  jug's  for  cream, 
an'  I  dinna  doot  mysel'  but  'at  there's  to  be  fower- 
pence  worth  o'  milk  this  nicht." 

"There's  to  be  a  puddin*  made  the  morn, 
Leeby.  Ou,  ay,  a'  thing  points  to  that ;  an'  we're 
very  sure  there's  nae  puddins  at  the  lawyer's  on 
the  Sabbath  onless  they  hae  company." 

"I  dinna  ken  wha'  they  can  hae,  if  it  be  na 
that  brither  o'  the  wife's  'at  bides  oot  by  Aber- 
deen. " 

"Na    it's  no  him,   Leeby;   na,   na.     He's  no 


10  A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

weel  to  do,  an'  they  wouldna  be  buyin'  cream  for 
'im." 

"I'll  run  up  to  the  attic  again,  an'  see  if  there's 
ony  stir  at  the  lawyer's  hoose. " 

By  and  by  Leeby  returned  in  triumph. 

"Ou,  ay,"  she  said,  "they're  expectin'  vees- 
itors  at  the  lawyer's,  for  I  could  see  twa  o'  the 
bairns  dressed  up  to  the  nines,  an'  Mistress  Ogilvy 
doesna  dress  at  them  in  that  way  for  naething." 

' '  It  far  beats  me  though,  Leeby,  to  guess  wha's 
comin'  to  them.  Ay,  but  stop  a  meenute,  I 
wouldna  wonder,  no,  really  I  would  not  wonder 
but  what  it'll  be " 

"The  very  thing 'at  was  passin'  through  my 
head,  mother." 

"  Ye  mean  'at  the  lad  Wilkie  '11  be  to  bide  wi' 
the  lawyer  i'stead  o'  wi'  Sam'l  Duthie  ?  Sal,  am 
thinkin'  that's  it.  Ye  ken  Sam'l  an'  the  lawyer 
married  on  cousins  ;  but  Mistress  Ogilvy  ay  lookit 
on  Chirsty  as  dirt  aneath  her  feet.  She  would  be 
glad  to  get  a  minister,  though,  to  the  hoose,  an' 
so  I  warrant  the  lad  Wilkie  '11  be  to  bide  a'  nicht 
at  the  lawyer's. " 

"  But  what  would  Chirsty  be  doin'  gettin'  the 
chintz  an'  the  fender  in  that  case  ?  " 

"  Ou,  she'd  been  expectin'  the  lad,  of  course. 
Sal,  she'll  be  in  a  michty  tantrum  aboot  this.  I 
wouldna  wonder  though  she  gets  Sam'l  to  gang 
owcr  to  the  U.  P.'s." 

Leeby  went  once  more  to  the  attic. 


A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  *1 

"Ye'rewrang,  mother, "she  cried  out  "  Wha- 
ever's  to  preach  the  morn  is  to  bide  at  the  manse, 
for  the  minister's  servant's  been  at  Baker  Duffs 
buyin'  short-bread — half  a  lippy,  nae  doot." 

"  Are  ye  sure  o'  that,  Leeby  ?  " 

"Oh,  am  certain.  The  servant  gaed  in  to 
Duffs  the  noo,  an'  as  ye  ken  fine,  the  manse  fowk 
doesna  deal  wi'  him,  except  they're  wantin'  short- 
bread. He's  Auld  Kirk." 

Leeby  returned  to  the  kitchen,  and  Jess  sat  for 
a  time  ruminating. 

"TheladWilkie,"  she  said  at  last,  triumphantly, 
"'11  be  to  bide  at  Lawyer  Ogilvy's  ;  but  he'll  be 
gaen  to  the  manse  the  morn  for  a  tea-dinner." 

"  But  what,"  asked  Leeby,  "  aboot  the  milk  an' 
the  cream  for  the  lawyer's  ?  " 

"Ou,  they'll  be  hae'n  a  puddin'  for  the  supper 
the  nicht.  That's  a  michty  genteel  thing,  I've 
heard. " 

It  turned  out  that  Jess  was  right  in  every 
particular. 


32  A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 


CHAPTER  IIL 

PREPARING   TO    RECEIVE   COMPANY. 

LEEBY  was  at  the  fire  brandering  a  quarter  of 
steak  on  the  tongs,  when  the  house  was  flung 
into  consternation  by  Hendry's  casual  remark 
that  he  had  seen  Tibbie  Mealmaker  in  the  town 
with  her  man. 

"  The  Lord  preserve's  !  "  cried  Leeby. 

Jess  looked  quickly  at  the  clock. 

"  Half  fower  !  "  she  said  excitedly. 

"Then  it  canna  be  dune,"  said  Leeby,  falling 
despairingly  into  a  chair,  "for  they  may  be  here 
ony  meenute." 

"  It's  most  michty,"  said  Jess,  turning  on  her 
husband,  ' '  'at  ye  should  tak'  a  pleasure  in  bringin' 
this  hoose  to  disgrace.  Hoo  did  ye  no  tell's 
suner  ? " 

"  I  fair  forgot,"  Hendry  answered,  "  but  what's 
a'  yer  steer  ?  " 

Jess  looked  at  me  (she  often  did  this)  in  a  way 
that  meant,  "What  a  man  is  this  I'm  tied  to  !  " 

"  Steer  1"  she  exclaimed.  "Is't  no  time  we 
was  makkin'  a  steer  ?  They'll  be  in  for  their  tea 
ony  meenute,  an'  the  room  no  sae  muckle  as 


A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  23 

sweepit.  Ay,  an'  me  lookin'  like  a  sweep ;  an* 
Tibbie  Mealmaker  'at's  sae  partikler  genteel  seein' 
you  sic  a  sicht  as  ye  are  !  " 

Jess  shook  Hendry  out  of  his  chair,  while  Leeby 
began  to  sweep  with  the  one  hand,  and  agitatedly 
to  unbutton  her  wrapper  with  the  other. 

"She  didna  see  me,"  said  Hendry,  sitting 
down  forlornly  on  the  table. 

"Getaff  that  table  !"  cried  Jess.  "Seehaud 
o'  the  besom,"  she  said  to  Leeby. 

"  For  mercy's  sake,  mother,"  said  Leeby,  "gie 
yer  face  a  dicht,  an'  put  on  a  clean  mutch." 

"I'll  open  the  door  if  they  come  afore  you're 
ready,"  said  Hendry,  as  Leeby  pushed  him  against 
the  dresser. 

"Ye  daur  to  speak  aboot  openin'  the  door,  an' 
you  sic  a  mess !  "  cried  Jess,  with  pins  in  her 
mouth. 

"  Havers  !"  retorted  Hendry.  "A  man  canna 
be  aye  washin'  at  'imsel'." 

Seeing  that  Hendry  was  as  much  in  the  way  as 
myself,  I  invited  him  upstairs  to  the  attic,  whence 
we  heard  Jess  and  Leeby  upbraiding  each  other 
shrilly.  I  was  aware  that  the  room  was  speck- 
less  ;  but  for  all  that,  Leeby  was  turning  it  upside 
down. 

"She's  aye  ta'en  like  that,"  Hendry  said  to 
me,  referring  to  his  wife,  "when  she's  expectin' 
company.  Ay,  it's  a  peety  she  car.na  tak'  things 
cannier." 


84  A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

"Tibbie  Mealmaker  must  be  some  one  of  im- 
portance ? "  I  asked 

"Ou,  she's  naething  by  the  ord'nar' ;  but  ye 
see  she  was  mairit  to  a  Tilliedrum  man  no  lang 
syne,  an'  they're  said  to  hae  a  michty  grand 
establishment.  Ay,  they've  a  wardrobe  spleet 
new  ;  an'  what  think  ye  Tibbie  wears  ilka 
day  ? " 

I  shook  my  head. 

"It  was  Chirsty  Miller  'at  put  it  through  the 
toon,"  Hendry  continued.  "  Chirsty  was  in 
Tilliedrum  last  Teisday  or  Wednesday,  an'  Tibbie 
gae  her  a  cup  o'  tea.  Ay,  weel,  Tibbie  telt 
Chirsty  'at  she  wears  hose  ilka  day. " 

"Wears  hose?" 

"Ay.  It's  some  michty  grand  kind  o'  stockin'. 
I  never  heard  o't  in  this  toon.  Na,  there's  nae- 
body  in  Thrums  'at  wears  hose. " 

"And  who  did  Tibbie  get?"  I  asked;  for  in 
Thrums  they  say,  "  Wha  did  she  get?"  and 
"Whadidhetak?" 

"His  name's  Davit  Curly.  Ou,  a  crittur  fu'  o' 
maggots,  an'  nae  great  match,  for  he's  juist  the 
Tilliedrum  bill-sticker. " 

At  this  moment  Jess  shouted  from  her  chair 
(she  was  burnishing  the  society  teapot  as  she 
spoke),  "Mind,  Hendry  McQumpha,  'at  upon 
nae  condition  are  ye  to  mention  the  bill-stickin' 
afore  Tibbie ! " 

"Tibbie,"   Hendry  explained  to    me,    "is    * 


A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  25 

terrible  vain  tid,  an'  doesna  think  the  bill-stickin' 
genteel  Ay,  they  say  'at  if  she  meets  Davit  in 
the  street  wi'  his  paste-pot  an'  the  brush  in  his 
hands  she  pretends  no  to  ken  'im." 

Every  time  Jess  paused  to  think  she  cried  up 
orders,  such  as — 

"  Dinna  call  her  Tibbie,  mind  ye.  Always 
address  her  as  Mistress  Curly. " 

' '  Shak'  hands  wi'  baith  o'  them,  an'  say  ye 
hope  they're  in  the  enjoyment  o'  guid  health." 

"Dinna  put  yer  feet  on  the  table." 

"  Mind,  you're  no'  to  mention  'at  ye  kent  they 
were  in  the  toon. " 

"When  onybody  passes  ye  yer  tea  say,  '  Thank 
ye.'" 

"Dinna  stir  yer  tea  as  if  ye  was  churnin' 
butter,  nor  let  on  'at  the  scones  is  no  our  ain 
bakin'. " 

"  If  Tibbie  says  onything  aboot  the  china  yer 
no'  to  say  'at  we  dinna  use  it  ilka  day." 

"Dinna  lean  back  in  the  big  chair,  for  it's 
broken  an'  Leeby's  gi'en  it  a  lick  o'  glue  this 
meenute. " 

"When  Leeby  gies  ye  a  kick  aneath  the  table, 
that'll  be  a  sign  to  ye  to  say  grace. " 

Hendry  looked  at  me  apologetically  while  these 
instructions  came  up. 

"I  winna  dive  my  head  wi  sic  nonsense,"  he 
said ;  "  it's  no'  for  a  man  body  to  be  sae  crammed 
fu'  o'  manners." 


26  A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

"Come awa'  doon,"  Jess  shouted  to  him,  "  an' 
put  on  a  clean  dickey." 

" I'll  better  do 't  to  please  her,"  said  Hendry, 
"though  for  my  ain  part  I  dinna  like  the  feel  o'  a 
dickey  on  week-days.  Na,  they  mak's  think  it's 
the  Sabbath." 

Ten  minutes  afterward  I  went  downstairs  to  see 
how  the  preparations  were  progressing.  Fresh 
muslin  curtains  had  been  put  up  in  the  room. 
The  grand  footstool,  worked  by  Leeby,  was  so 
placed  that  Tibbie  could  not  help  seeing  it ;  and  a 
fine  cambric  handkerchief,  of  which  Jess  was  very 
proud,  was  hanging  out  of  a  drawer  as  if  by  acci- 
dent. An  antimacassar  lying  carelessly  on  the 
seat  of  a  chair  concealed  a  rent  in  the  horse-hair, 
and  the  china  ornaments  on  the  mantelpiece  were 
so  placed  that  they  looked  whole.  Leeby's  black 
merino  was  hanging  near  the  window  in  a  good 
light,  and  Jess'  Sabbath  bonnet,  which  was  never 
worn,  occupied  a  nail  beside  it.  The  tea-things 
stood  on  a  tray  in  the  kitchen  bed,  whence  they 
could  be  quickly  brought  into  the  room,  just  as  if 
they  were  always  ready  to  be  used  daily.  Leeby, 
as  yet  en  dishabille,  was  shaving  her  father  at  a 
tremendous  rate,  and  Jess,  looking  as  fresh  as  a 
daisy,  was  ready  to  receive  the  visitors.  She  was 
peering  through  the  tiny  window-blind  looking 
for  them. 

"Be  cautious,  Leeby,"   Hendry  was  saying, 


A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  2j 

when  Jess  shook  her  hand  at  him.  "Wheesht," 
she  whispered  ;  "  they're  comin'." 

Hendry  was  hustled  into  his  Sabbath  coat,  and 
then  came  a  tap  at  the  door,  a  very  genteel  tap. 
Jess  nodded  to  Leeby,  who  softly  shoved  Hendry 
into  the  room. 

The  tap  was  repeated,  but  Leeby  pushed  her 
father  into  a  chair  and  thrust  Barrow's  Sermons 
open  into  his  hand.  Then  she  stole  about  the 
house,  and  swiftly  buttoned  her  wrapper,  speak- 
ing to  Jess  by  nods  the  while.  There  was  a  third 
knock,  whereupon  Jess  said,  in  a  loud,  Englishy 
voice  : 

"  Was  that  not  a  chap  (knock)  at  the  door? " 

Hendry  was  about  to  reply,  but  she  shook  hel 
fist  at  him.  Next  moment  Leeby  opened  the 
door.  I  was  upstairs,  but  I  heard  Jess  say  : 

"  Dear  me,  if  it's  not  Mrs.  Curly — and  Mr. 
Curly  !  And  hoo  are  ye  ?  Come  in,  by.  Weel, 
this  is,  indeed,  a  pleasant  surprise  ! " 


A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

WAITING   FOR   THE    DOCTOR. 

JESS  had  gone  early  to  rest,  and  the  door  of 
her  bed  in  the  kitchen  was  pulled  to.  From  her 
window  I  saw  Hendry  buying  dulse. 

Now  and  again  the  dulseman  wheeled  his  slimy 
boxes  to  the  top  of  the  brae,  and  sat  there  stolidly 
on  the  shafts  of  his  barrow.  Many  passed  him 
by,  but  occasionally  some  one  came  to  rest  by  his 
side.  Unless  the  customer  was  loquacious,  there 
was  no  bandying  of  words,  and  Hendry  merely 
unbuttoned  his  east-trouser  pocket,  giving  his 
body  the  angle  at  which  the  pocket  could  be  most 
easily  filled  by  the  dulseman.  He  then  deposited 
his  halfpenny,  and  moved  on.  Neither  had 
spoken  ;  yet  in  the  country  they  would  have  roared 
their  predictions  about  to-morrow  to  a  ploughman 
half  a  field  away. 

Dulse  is  roasted  by  twisting  it  round  the  tongs 
fired  to  a  red-heat,  and  the  house  was  soon  heavy 
with  the  smell  of  burning  seaweed.  Leeby  was 
at  the  dresser  munching  it  from  a  broth-plate, 
while  Hendry,  on  his  knees  at  the  fireplace,  gin- 


A    WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  29 

gerly  tore  off  the  blades  of  dulse  that  were  stick- 
ing to  the  tongs,  and  licked  his  singed  fingers. 

"  Whaur's  yer  mother  ?  "  he  asked  Leeby. 

"Ou,"  said  Leeby,  "whaur  would  she  be  but 
in  her  bed  ? '" 

Hendry  took  the  tongs  to  the  door,  and  would 
have  cleaned  them  himself,  had  not  Leeby  (who 
often  talked  his  interfering  ways  over  with  her 
mother)  torn  them  from  his  hands. 

"  Leeby  !  "  cried  Jess  at  that  moment. 

"Ay,"  answered  Leeby,  leisurely,  not  noticing, 
as  I  happened  to  do,  that  Jess  spoke  in  an  agitated 
voice. 

"What  is't?"  asked  Hendry,  who  liked  to  be 
told  things. 

He  opened  the  door  of  the  bed. 

"Yer  mothers  no  weel,"  he  said  to  Leeby. 

Leeby  ran  to  the  bed,  and  I  went  ben  the 
house. 

In  another  two  minutes  we  were  a  group  of 
four  in  the  kitchen,  staring  vacantly.  Death 
could  not  have  startled  us  more,  tapping  thrice 
that  quiet  night  on  the  window-pane. 

"  It's  diphtheria  J  "  said  Jess,  her  handa 
trembling  as  she  buttoned  her  wrapper. 

She  looked  at  me,  and  Leeby  looked  at  me. 

"It's  no  !  it's  no  !  "  cried  Leeby,  and  her  voice 
was  as  a  fist  shaken  at  my  face.  She  blamed  me 
for  hesitating  in  my  reply.  But  ever  since  this 
malady  left  me  a  lonely  dominie  for  life,  diph- 


30  A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

theria  has  been  a  knockdown  word  for  me.  Jess 
had  discovered  a  great  white  spot  on  her  throat 
I  knew  the  symptoms. 

"Is't  dangerous?"  asked  Hen  dry,  who  once 
had  a  headache  years  before,  and  could  still  refer 
to  it  as  a  reminiscence. 

"Them  'at  has  't  never  recovers,"  said  Jess, 
sitting  down  very  quietly.  A  stick  fell  from  the 
fire,  and  she  bent  forward  to  replace  it. 

"They  do  recover !"  cried  Leeby,  again  turn- 
ing angry  eyes  on  me. 

I  could  not  face  her  ;  I  had  known  so  many 
who  did  not  recover.  She  put  her  hands  on  her 
mother's  shoulders. 

"Mebbe  ye  would  be  better  in  your  bed,"  sug- 
gested Hen  dry. 

No  one  spoke. 

"When  I  had  the  headache,"  said  Hendry,  "I 
was  better  in  my  bed." 

Leeby.  had  taken  Jess'  hand — a  worn  old  hand 
that  had  many  a  time  gone  out  in  love  and  kind- 
ness when  younger  hands  were  cold.  Poets 
have  sung  and  fighting  men  have  done  great 
deeds  for  hands  that  never  had  such  a  record. 

"If  ye  could  eat  something,"  said  Hendry,  "I 
would  gae  to  the  flesher's  for  't.  I  mind  when  I 
had  the  headache,  hoo  a  small  steak " 

• '  Gae  awa  for  the  doctor,  rayther, "  broke  in 
Leeby. 

Jess  started,  for  sufferers  think  there  is  less 


A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  31 

hope  for  them  after  the  doctor  has  been  called  in 
to  pronounce  sentence. 

"I  winna  hae  the  doctor,"  she  said,  anx- 
ioxisly. 

In  answer  to  Leeby's  nods,  Hendry  slowly 
pulled  out  his  boots  from  beneath  the  table,  and 
sat  looking  at  them,  preparatory  to  putting  them 
on.  He  was  beginning  at  last  to  be  a  little 
scared,  though  his  face  did  not  show  it. 

"I  winna  hae  ye,"  cried  Jess,  getting  to  her 
feet,  "  gaen  to  the  doctor's  sic  a  sicht.  Yer 
coat's  a'  yarn." 

"Havers,"  said  Hendry,  but  Jess  became 
frantic. 

I  offered  to  go  for  the  doctor,  but  while  I  was 
upstairs  looking  for  my  bonnet  I  heard  the  door 
slam.  Leeby  had  become  impatient  and  darted 
off  herself,  buttoning  her  jacket  probably  as  she 
ran.  When  I  returned  to  the  kitchen,  Jess  and 
Hendry  were  still  by  the  fire.  Hendry  was  beat- 
ing a  charred  stick  into  sparks,  and  his  wife  sat 
with  her  hands  in  her  lap.  I  saw  Hendry  look 
at  her  once  or  twice,  but  he  could  think  of  noth- 
ing to  say.  His  terms  of  endearment  had  died 
out  thirty-nine  years  before  with  his  courtship. 
He  had  forgotten  the  words.  For  his  life  he 
could  not  have  crossed  over  to  Jess  and  put  his 
arm  round  her.  Yet  he  was  uneasy.  His  eyes 
wandered  round  the  poorly-lit  room. 

"Will  ye  hae  a  drink  o'  water?  "  he  asked. 


$1  A  WINDOW  IN- THRUMS. 

There  was  a  sound  of  footsteps  outside. 

"That'll  be  him,"  said  Hendry,  in  a  whisper. 

Jess  started  to  her  feet,  and  told  Hendry  to 
help  her  ben  the  house. 

The  steps  died  away,  but  I  fancied  that  Jess, 
now  highly  strung,  had  gone  into  hiding,  and  I 
went  after  her.  I  was  mistaken.  She  had  lit 
the  room-lamp,  turning  the  crack  in  the  globe  to 
the  wall.  The  sheep-skin  hearth-rug,  which  was 
generally  carefully  packed  away  beneath  the  bed, 
had  been  spread  out  before  the  empty  fireplace, 
and  Jess  was  on  the  arm-chair  hurriedly  putting 
on  her  grand  black  mutch  with  the  pink  flowers. 

"Iwasjuist  makkin'  mysel'  respectable,"  she 
said,  but  without  life  in  her  voice. 

This  was  the  only  time  I  ever  saw  her  in  the 
room. 

Leeby  returned  panting  to  say  that  the  doctor 
might  be  expected  in  an  hour.  He  was  away 
among  the  hills. 

The  hour  passed  reluctantly.  Leeby  lit  a  fire 
ben  the  house,  and  then  put  on  her  Sabbath 
dress.  She  sat  with  her  mother  in  the  room. 
Never  before  had  I  seen  Jess  sit  so  quietly,  for 
her  way  was  to  work  until,  as  she  said  herself, 
she  was  ready  "to  fall  into  her  bed." 

Hendry  wandered  between  the  rooms,  always 
in  the  way  when  Leeby  ran  to  the  window  to  see 
if  that  was  the  doctor  at  last.  He  would  stand 
gaping  in  the  middle  of  the  room  for  five  min- 


A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  33 

utes,  then  slowly  withdraw  to  stand  as  drearily 
but  the  house.  His  face  lengthened.  At  last  he 
sat  down  by  the  kitchen  fire,  a  Bible  in  his  hand. 
It  lay  open  on  his  knee,  but  he  did  not  read 
much.  He  sat  there  with  his  legs  outstretched, 
looking  straight  before  him.  I  believe  he  saw 
Jess  young  again.  His  face  was  very  solemn, 
and  his  mouth  twitched.  The  fire  sank  into 
ashes  unheeded. 

I  sat  alone  at  my  attic  window  for  hours, 
waiting  for  the  doctor.  From  the  attic  I  could 
see  nearly  all  Thrums,  but,  until  very  late,  the 
night  was  dark,  and  the  brae,  except  immediately 
before  the  door,  was  blurred  and  dim.  A  sheet  of 
light  canopied  the  square  as  long  as  a  cheap  Jack 
paraded  his  goods  there.  It  was  gone  before  the 
moon  came  out.  Figures  tramped,  tramped  up 
the  brae,  passed  the  house  in  shadow  and  stole 
silently  on.  A  man  or  boy  whistling  seemed 
to  fill  the  valley.  The  moon  arrived  too  late  to 
be  of  service  to  any  wayfarer.  Everybody  in 
Thrums  was  asleep  but  ourselves,  and  the  doctor 
who  never  came. 

About  midnight  Hendry  climbed  the  attic  stair 
and  joined  me  at  the  window.  His  hand  was 
shaking  as  he  pulled  back  the  blind.  I  began  to 
realize  that  his  heart  could  still  overflow. 

"  She's  waur,"  he  whispered,  like  one  who  had 
lost  his  voice. 

For  a  long  time  he  sat  silently,  his  hand  on  the 
3 


34  A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

blind.  He  was  so  different  from  the  Hendry  I 
had  known  that  I  felt  myself  in  the  presence  of  a 
strange  man.  His  eyes  were  glazed  with  staring 
at  the  turn  of  the  brae  where  the  doctor  must  first 
come  into  sight.  His  breathing  became  heavier 
till  it  was  a  gasp.  Then  I  put  my  hand  on  his 
shoulder,  and  he  stared  at  me. 

" Nine-and-thirty  years  come  June,"  he  said, 
speaking  to  himself. 

For  this  length  of  time,  I  knew,  he  and  Jess 
had  been  married.  He  repeated  the  words  at  in- 
tervals. 

"  I  mind "  he  began,  and  stopped.  He  was 

thinking  of  the  spring-time  of  Jess'  life. 

The  night  ended  as  we  watched  ;  then  came 
the  terrible  moment  that  precedes  the  day — the 
moment  known  to  shuddering  watchers  by  sick 
beds,  when  a  chill  wind  cuts  through  the  house, 
and  the  world  without  seems  cold  in  death.  It  is 
as  if  the  heart  of  the  earth  did  not  mean  to  con- 
tinue beating. 

"  This  is  a  fearsome  nicht, "  Hendry  said  hoarsely. 

He  turned  to  grope  his  way  to  the  stairs,  but 
suddenly  went  down  on  his  knees  to  pray.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  quick  step  outside.  I  arose  in 
time  to  see  the  doctor  on  the  brae.  He  tried  the 
latch,  but  Leeby  was  there  to  show  him  in. 

The  door  of  the  room  closed  on  him. 

From  the  top  of  the  stair  I  could  see  into  the 
dark  passage,  and  make  out  Hendry  shaking  at 


A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS,  35 

tiie  door.  I  could  hear  the  doctor's  voice,  but 
not  the  words  he  said.  There  was  a  painful  silence, 
and  then  Leeby  laughed  joyously. 

"It's  gone,"  cried  Jess;  "the  white  spot's 
gone !  Ye  juist  touched  it,  an'  it's  gone  !  Tell 
Hendry." 

But  Hendry  did  not  need  to  be  told.  As  Jess 
spoke  I  heard  him  say,  huskily  :  "Thank  God  !  " 
and  then  he  tottered  back  to  the  kitchen.  When 
the  doctor  left,  Hendry  was  still  on  Jess'  arm- 
chair, trembling  like  a  man  with  the  palsy.  Ten 
minutes  afterward  I  was  preparing  for  bed,  when 
he  cried  up  the  stair  : 

"Come  awa'  doon." 

I  joined  the  family  party  in  the  room  :  Hendry 
was  sitting  close  to  Jess. 

' '  Let  us  read, "  he  said,  firmly,  ' '  in  the  fourteenth 
of  John." 


36  A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 


CHAPTER  V. 

A   HUMORIST   ON    HIS    CALLING. 

AFTER  the  eight  o'clock  bell  had  rung,  Hendry 
occasionally  crossed  over  to  the  farm  of  T'nowhead 
and  sat  on  the  pig-sty.  If  no  one  joined  him  he 
scratched  the  pig,  and  returned  home  gradually. 
Here  what  was  almost  a  club  held  informal  meet- 
ings, at  which  two  or  four,  or  even  half  a  dozen 
assembled  to  debate,  when  there  was  any  one  to 
start  them.  The  meetings  were  only  memorable 
when  Tammas  Haggart  was  in  fettle,  to  pro- 
nounce judgments  in  his  well-known  sarcastic 
way.  Sometimes  we  had  got  off  the  pig-sty  to 
separate  before  Tammas  was  properly  yoked. 
There  we  might  remain  a  long  time,  planted 
round  him  like  trees,  for  he  was  a  mesmerizing 
talker. 

There  was  a  pail  belonging  to  the  pig-sty, 
which  some  one  would  turn  bottom  upward  and 
sit  upon  if  the  attendance  was  unusually  numer- 
ous. Tammas  liked,  however,  to  put  a  foot  on 
it  now  and  again  in  the  full  swing  of  a  harangue, 
and  when  he  paused  for  a  sarcasm  I  have  seen 
the  pail  kicked  toward  him.  He  had  the  wave 


A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  37 

of  the  arm  that  is  so  convincing  in  argument, 
and  such  a  natural  way  of  asking  questions,  that 
an  audience  not  used  to  public  speaking  might 
have  thought  he  wanted  them  to  reply.  It  is  an 
undoubted  fact  that,  when  he  went  on  the  plat- 
form, at  the  time  of  the  election,  to  heckle  the 
colonel,  he  paused  in  the  middle  of  his  questions 
to  take  a  drink  out  of  the  tumbler  of  water  which 
stood  on  the  table.  As  soon  as  they  saw  what 
he  was  up  to,  the  spectators  raised  a  ringing  cheer. 

On  concluding  his  perorations,  Tammas  sent 
his  snuff-mull  round,  but  we  had  our  own  way  of 
passing  him  a  vote  of  thanks.  One  of  the  com- 
pany would  express  amazement  at  his  gift  of 
words,  and  the  others  would  add,  "Man,  man," 
or,  "  Ye  co we  a' Tammas, "  or,  "What a  crittur  ye 
are ! "  all  which  ejaculations  meant  the  same 
thing.  .  A  new  subject  being  thus  ingeniously  in- 
troduced, Tammas  again  put  his  foot  on  the  pail. 

"I  tak'  no  creedit,"  he  said,  modestly,  on  the 
evening,  I  remember,  of  Willie  Pyatt's  funeral, 
"in  bein'  able  to  speak  wi'  a  sort  o'  faceelity  on 
topics  'at  I've  made  my  ain. " 

"Ay,"  said  T'nowhead,  "but  i'ts  no  the  faceel- 
ity o'  speakin'  'at  taks  me.  There's  Davit  Lu- 
nan  'at  can  speak  like  as  if  he  had  learned  it  aff  a 
paper,  an*  yet  I  canna  thole  'im." 

"Davit,"  said  Hendry,  "doesna  speak  in  a 
wy  'at  a  body  can  follow  'im.  He  doesna  gae 
even  on.  Jess  says  he's  juist  like  a  man  ay  at  the 


38  A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

cross-roads,  an'  no  sure  o'  his  way.  But  the  stock 
has  words,  an'  no  ilka  body  has  that." 

"If  I  was  bidden  to  put  Tammas'  gift  in  a 
word,"  said  T'nowhead,  "I  would  say  'at  he  had 
a  wy.  That's  what  I  would  say." 

"Weel,  I  suppose  I  have,"  Tammas  admitted, 
"but,  wy  or  no  wy,  I  couldna  put  a  point  on  my 
words  if  it  wasna  for  my  sense  o'  humor.  Lads, 
humor's  what  gies  the  nip  to  speakin'." 

"It's  what  maks  ye  a  sarcesticist,  Tammas," 
said  Hendry  ;  "but  what  I  wonder  at  is  yer  say- 
in'  the  humorous  things  sae  aisy  like.  Some  says 
ye  mak  them  up  aforehand,  but  I  ken  that's  no 
true." 

"No  only  is't  no  true,"  said  Tammas,  "but  it 
couldna  be  true.  Them  'at  says  sic  things,  an', 
weel  I  ken  you're  meanin'  Davit  Lunan,  hasna 
nae  idea  o'  what  humor  is.  It's  a  thing  'at  spouts 
oot  o'  its  ain  accord.  Some  o'  the  maist  humor- 
ous things  I've  ever  said  cam'  oot,  as  a  body  may 
say,  by  themsel's. " 

"I  suppose  that's  the  case,"  said  T'nowhead, 
"a'  yet  it  maun  be  you  'at  brings  them  up  ? " 

"There's  no  nae  doubt  aboot its bein' the  case," 
said  Tammas,  "for  I've  watched  mysel'  often. 
There  was  a  vara  guid  instance  occurred  sune 
after  I  married  Easie.  The  earl's  son  met  me  one 
day,  aboot  that  time,  i*  the  Tenements,  an'  he 
didna  ken  'at  Chirsty  was  deid,  an'  I  married 
again.  'Well,  Haggart,'  he  says,  in  his  frank  wy. 


A  WINDOW  iff  THRUMS.  & 

'and  how  is  your  wife?'  'She's  vara  weel,  sir, 
I  maks  answer,  'but  she's  no  the  ane  >ju 
mean.' ' 

"Na,  he  meant  Chirsty,"  said  Hendry. 

"  Is  that  a'  the  story  ?  "  asked  T'nowhead. 

Tarn  mas  had  been  looking  at  us  queerly. 

"  There's  no  nane  o'  ye  lauchin',"  he  said,  "  but  I 
can  assure  ye  the  earl's  son  gaed  east  the  toon 
lauchin'  like  onything." 

"But  what  vvas't  he  lauched  at?" 

"  Ou,"  said  Tammas,  "  a  humorist  doesna  ttll 
whaur  the  humor  comes  in." 

"No,  but  when  you  said  that,  did  ye  mean  it  to 
be  humorous  ?  " 

"Amnosayin'  I  did,  but  as  I've  been  tellin' 
ye,  humor  spouts  oot  by  itsel'. " 

"Ay,  but  do  ye  ken  noo  what  the  earl's  son 
gaed  away  lauchin'  at  ? " 

Tammas  hesitated. 

"I  dinna  exactly  see't,"  he  confessed,  "but 
that's  no  an  oncommon  thing.  A  humorist  would 
often  no  ken  'at  he  was  ane  if  it  wasna  by  the  wy 
he  maks  other  fowk  lauch.  A  body  canna  beex- 
peckit  baith  to  mak'  the  joke  an'  to  see't  Na,  that 
would  be  doin'  twa  fowks'  wark." 

"Weel,  that's  reasonable  enough,  but  I've 
often  seen  ye  lauchin,"  said  Hendry,  "langaforo 
other  fowk  lauched." 

"  Nae  doubt,"  Tammas  explained,  "an'  that's 
because  humor  has  twa  sides,  just  like  a  penny- 


40  A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS, 

piece.  When  I  say  a  humorous  thing  mysel' 
I'm  dependent  on  other  fowk  to  tak  note  o'  the 
humor  o't,  bein'  mysel'  ta'en  up  wi'  the  makkin' 
o't.  Ay,  but  there's  things  I  see  an'  hear  'at 
maks  me  lauch,  an'  that's  the  other  side  o' 
humor." 

"I  never  heard  it  put  sae  plain  afore,"  said 
T'nowhead,  "an',  sal,  am  no  nane  sure  but  what 
am  a  humorist  too." 

"  Na,  na,  no  you,  T'nowhead,"  said  Tammas 
hotly. 

"  Weel,"  continued  the  farmer,  "  I  never  set  up 
for  bein'  a  humorist,  but  I  can  juist  assure  ye'at  I 
lauch  at  queer  things  too.  No  lang  syne  I  woke 
up  i'  my  bed  lauchin'  like  onything,  an'  Lisbeth 
thocht  I  wasna  weel.  It  was  something  I 
dreamed  'at  made  me  lauch ;  I  couldna  think 
what  it  was,  but  I  lauched  richt.  Was  that  no 
fell  like  a  humorist  ?  " 

"That  was  neither  here  nor  there,"  said  Tam- 
mas. "Na,  dreams  dinna  coont,  for  we're  no 
responsible  for  them.  Ay,  an'  what's  mair  the 
mere  lauchin's  no  the  important  side  o'  humor, 
even  though  ye  hinna  to  be  telt  to  lauch.  The 
important  side's  the  other  side,  the  sayin'  the  hu- 
morous things.  I'll  tell  ye  what :  the  humorist's 
like  a  man  firm'  at  a  target — he  doesna  ken 
whether  he  hits  or  no  till  them  at  the  target  tells 
'im." 

"I  would  be  of  opeenion,"  said  Hendry,  who 


A  WINDOW  Itt  THRUMS.  41 

was  one  of  Tammas'  most  stanch  admirers,  "'at 
another  mark  o'  the  rale  humorist  was  his  seein' 
humor  in  all  things  ?  " 

Tammas  shook  his  head — a  way  he  had  when 
Hendry  advanced  theories. 

"  I  dinna  haud  wi'  that  ava,"  he  said.  "  I  ken 
fine  'at  Davit  Lunan  gaes  aboot  sayin'  he  sees  hu- 
mor in  everything,  but  there's  nae  surer  sign  'at 
he's  no  a  genuine  humorist.  Na,  the  rale  humor- 
ist kens  vara  weel  'at  there  s  subjects  withoot  a 
spark  o'  humor  in  them.  When  a  subject  rises  to 
the  sublime  it  should  be  regairded  philosophically, 
an'  no  humorously.  Davit  would  lauch  at  the 
grandest  thochts,  whaur  they  only  fill  the  true  hu- 
morist wi'  awe.  I've  found  it  necessary  to  rebuke 
'im  at  times  whaur  his  lauchin'  was  oot  o'  place. 
He  pretended  aince  on  this  vara  spot  to  see  hu- 
mor i'  the  origin  o'  cock-fightin'. " 

"Didhe,  man  ?"  said  Hendry;  "Iwasnahere. 
But  what  is  the  origin  o'  cock-fechtin'  ? " 

"  It  was  a'  i'  the  Cheap  Magazine," said.  T'now- 
head. 

"Was  I  sayin'  it  wasna? "  demanded  Tammas. 
"  It  was  through  me  readin'  the  account  oot  o' 
the  Cheap  Magazine  'at  the  discussion  arose." 

"But  what  said  the  Cheapy  was  the  origin  o' 
cock-fechtin'  ? " 

"T'nowhead  '11  tell  ye,"  answered  Tammas; 
"he  says  I  dinna  ken." 

"I  never  said  naething  o'  the  kind,"  returned 


4«  A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

Tnowhead,  indignantly ;  "  I  mind  o'  ye  readitt 
't  oot  fine." 

"Ay,  weel,"  said  Tammas,  "that's  a'  richt 
Ou,  the  origin  o'  cock-fightin'  gangs  back  to  the 
time  o'  the  Greek  wars,  a  thoosand  or  twa  years 
syne,  mair  or  less.  There  was  ane,  Miltiades  by 
name,  'at  was  the  captain  o'  the  Greek  army,  an' 
one  day  he  led  them  doon  the  mountains  to  attack 
the  biggest  army  'at  was  ever  gathered  thegither." 

"  They  were  Persians,"  interposed  T'nowhead, 

"  Are  you  tellin'  the  story,  or  am  I  ?  "  asked 
Tammas.  "I  kent  fine  'at  they  were  Persians. 
Weel,  Miltiades  had  the  matter  o' twenty  thoosand 
men  wi'  'im,  and  when  they  got  to  the  foot  o'  the 
mountain,  behold  there  was  two  cocks  fechtin'." 

"Man,  man,"  said  Hendry,  "an'  was  there 
cocks  in  thae  days  ?  " 

"  Ondoubtedly,"  said  Tammas,  "or  hoo  could 
thae  twa  hae  been  fechtin'  ? " 

"Ye  have  me  there,  Tammas,"  admitted  Hen- 
dry.  "Ye're  perfectly  richt." 

"Ay,  then,  "continued  the  stone-breaker,  "when 
Miltiades  saw  the  cocks  at  it  wi'  all  their  micht, 
he  stopped  the  army  and  addressed  it.  '  Behold  ! ' 
he  cried,  at  the  top  o'  his  voice,  '  these  cocks  do 
not  fight  for  their  household  gods  nor  for  the  mon- 
uments of  their  ancestors,  nor  for  glory,  nor  for 
liberty,  nor  for  their  children,  but  only  because 
the  one  will  not  give  way  unto  the  other.'" 

"It  was  nobly  said,"  declared  Hendry;  "na, 


A  WIMDOW IM  THRUMS.  43 

cocks  wouldna  hae  sae  muckle  understandin1  as 
to  fecht  for  thae  things.  I  wouldna  wonder  but 
what  it  was  some  laddies  'at  set  them  at  ane 
another." 

"  Hendry  doesna  see  what  Miltydes  was  after," 
said  T'nowhead. 

"  Ye'vetaen't  up  wrang,  Hendry,"  Tammas  ex- 
plained. "  What  Miltiades  meant  was  'at  if  cocks 
could  fecht  sae  weel  out  o'  mere  deviltry,  surely 
the  Greeks  would  fecht  terrible  for  their  gods  an' 
their  bairns  an'  the  other  things." 

"I  see,  I  see;  but  what  was  the  monuments 
o'  their  ancestors?" 

"Ou,  that  was  the  gravestanes  they  put  up  i* 
their  kirkyards." 

"  I  wonder  the  other  billies  would  want  to  tak 
them  awa.  They  would  be  a  michty  wecht." 

"Ay,  but  they  wanted  them,  an'  nat'rally  the 
Greeks  stuck  to  the  stanes  they  paid  for." 

"So,  so,  an'  did  Davit  Lunan  mak  oot  'at  there 
was  humor  in  that? " 

"  He  do  so.  He  said  it  was  a  humorous  thing 
to  think  o'  a  hale  army  lookin'  on  at  twa  cocks 
fechtin'.  I  assure  ye  I  telt  'im  'at  I  saw  nae 
humor  in't.  It  was  ane  o'  the  most  impressive 
sichts  ever  seen  by  man,  an'  the  Greeks  was  sae 
inspired  by  what  Miltiades  said  'at  they  sT.veepit 
the  Persians  oot  o'  their  country." 

We  all  agreed  that  Tammas'  was  the  genuine 
humor. 


44  A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

"An*  an  enviable  possession  it  is,"  said  Hen- 
dry. 

"In  a  wy,"  admitted  Tammas,  "but  no  in  a' 
wys. " 

He  hesitated,  and  then  added  in  a  low  voice  : 

"As  sure  as  death,  Hendry,  it  sometimes  taks> 
grip  o'  me  i'  the  kirk  itsel',  an'  I  can  hardly  keep 
frae  lauchin'." 


A  WltiZOW  W  THKUM&  45 


CHAPTER  VI. 

DEAD   THIS   TWENTY   YEARS. 

IN  the  lustiness  of  youth  there  are  many  who 
cannot  feel  that  they,  too,  will  die.  The  first 
fear  stops  the  heart.  Even  then  they  would  keep 
death  at  arm's  length  by  making  believe  to  dis- 
own him.  Loved  ones  are  taken  away,  and  the 
boy,  the  girl,  will  not  speak  of  them,  as  if  that 
made  the  conqueror's  triumph  the  less.  In  time 
the  fire  in  the  breast  burns  low,  and  then  in  the 
last  glow  of  the  embers,  it  is  sw-eeter  to  hold 
what  has  been  than  to  think  of  what  may  be. 

Twenty  years  had  passed  since  Joey  ran  down 
the  brae  to  play.  Jess,  his  mother,  shook  her 
staff  fondly  at  him.  A  cart  rumbled  by,  the 
driver  nodding  on  the  shaft.  It  rounded  the  cor- 
ner and  stopped  suddenly,  and  then  a  woman 
screamed.  A  handful  of  men  carried  Joey's  dead 
body  to  his  mother,  and  that  was  the  tragedy  of 
Jess'  life. 

*  V 

Twenty  years  ago,  and  still  Jess  sat  at  the 
window,  and  still  she  heard  that  woman  scream. 
Every  other  living  being  had  forgotten  Joey; 
ever,  to  Hendry  he  was  now  scarcely  a  name, 


46  A  WINDOW  Itf  THRUMS. 

but  there  were  times  when  Jess'  face  quivered  ant* 
her  old  arms  went  out  for  her  dead  607. 

"God's  will  be  done,"  she  said,  "but  oh!  I 
grudged  Him  my  bairn  terrible  sair.  I  dinna 
want  him  back  noo,  an'  ilka  day  is  takkin'  me 
nearer  to  him,  but  for  monyalang  year  I  grudged 
him  sair,  sair.  He  was  juist  five  minutes  gone, 
an'  they  brocht  him  back  deid,  my  Joey." 

On  the  Sabbath  day  Jess  could  not  go  to  church, 
and  it  was  then,  I  think,  that  she  was  with  Joey 
most.  There  was  often  a  blessed  serenity  on  her 
face,  when  we  returned,  that  only  comes  to  those 
who  have  risen  from  their  knees  with  their  prayers 
answered.  Then  she  was  very  close  to  the  boy 
who  died.  Long  ago  she  could  not  look  out 
from  her  window  upon  the  brae,  but  now  it  was 
her  seat  in  church.  There  on  the  Sabbath  even- 
ings she  sometimes  talked  to  me  of  Joey. 

"  It's  been  a  fine  day,"  she  would  say,  "juist 
like  that  day.  I  thank  the  Lord  for  the  sunshine 
noo,  but  oh  !  I  thocht  at  the  time  I  couldna  look 
at  the  sun  shinin'  again." 

"  In  all  Thrums,"  she  has  told  me,  and  I  know 
it  to  be  true,  "  there's  no  a  better  man  than 
Hendry.  There's  them  'at's  cleverer  in  the  wys 
o'  the  world,  but  my  man,  Hendry  McQtimpha, 
never  did  naething  m  all  his  life  'at  wasna  weel 
intended,  an'  though  his  words  is  common,  it's 
to  the  Lord  he  looks.  I  canna  think  but  what 
Hendry '»  pleasin'  to  God.  Oh,  I  dinna  ken  what 


A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  47 

to  say  wi'  thankfulness  to  him  when  I  mind  hoo 
guid  he's  been  to  me.  There's  Leeby  'at  I  couldna 
hae  done  withoot,  me  bein'  sae  silly  (weak  bodily), 
an'  ay,  Leeby's  stuck  by  me  an'  gien  up  her  life, 
as  ye  micht  say,  for  me.  Jamie " 

But  then  Jess  sometimes  broke  down. 

"  He's  so  far  awa,"  she  said,  after  a  time,  "an* 
aye  when  he  gangs  back  to  London  after  his 
holidays  he  has  a  fear  he'll  never  see  me  again, 
but  he's  terrified  to  mention  it,  an'  I  juist  ken  by 
the  wy  he  taks  haud  o' me,  an'  comes  runnin' 
back  to  tak  haud  o'  me  again.  I  ken  fine  what 
he's  thinkin',  but  I  daurna  speak. 

"  Guid  is  no  word  for  what  Jamie  has  been  to 
me,  but  he  wasna  born  till  after  Joey  died.  When 
we  got  Jamie,  Hendry  took  to  whistlin'  again  at 
the  loom,  an'  Jamie  juist  filled  Joey's  place  to  him. 
Ay,  but  naebody  could  fill  Joey's  place  to  me. 
It's  different  to  a  man.  A  bairn's  no  the  same  to 
him,  but  a  fell  bit  o'  me  was  buried  in  my  laddie's 
grave. 

"Jamie  an'  Joey  was  never  nane  the  same 
nature.  It  was  aye  something  in  a  shop  Jamie 
wanted  to  be,  an'  he  never  cared  muckle  for  his 
books,  but  Joey  hankered  after  being  a  minister, 
young  as  he  was,  an'  a  minister  Hendry  an'  me 
would  hae  done  our  best  to  mak  him.  Mony, 
rnony  a  time  after  he  came  in  frae  the  kirk  on  the 
Sabbath  he  would  stand  up  at  this  very  window 
and  wave  his  hands  in  a  reverent  way,  juist  like 


48  A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

the  minister.     His  first  text  was  to  be  '  Thou  God 
seest  me.' 

"  Ye'll  wonder  at  me,  but  I've  sat  here  in  the 
lang  fore-nichts  dreamin'  'at  Joey  was  a  grown 
man  noo,  an'  'at  I  was  puttin'  on  my  bonnet  to 
come  to  the  kirk  to  hear  him  preach.  Even  as  far 
back  as  twenty  years  an  mair  I  wasna  able  to 
gang  aboot,  but  Joey  would  say  to  me,  '  We'll  get 
a  carriage  to  ye,  mother,  so  'at  ye  can  come  and 
hear  me  preach  on  "Thou  God  seest  me.'"  He 
would  say  to  me,  '  It  doesna  do,  mother,  for  the 
minister  in  the  pulpit  to  nod  to  ony  o'  the  fowk, 
but  I'll  gie  ye  a  look  an'  ye'll  ken  it's  me.'  Oh, 
Joey,  I  would  hae  gien  you  a  look  too,  an'  ye 
would  hae  kent  what  I  was  thinkin'.  He  often 
said,  '  Ye'll  be  proud  o'  me,  will  ye  no,  mother, 
when  ye  see  me  comin'  sailin'  alang  to  the  pulpit 
in  my  gown  ? '  So  I  would  hae  been  proud  o' 
him,  an'  I  was  proud  to  hear  him  speakin'  o't. 
'The  other  fowk,'  he  said,  'will  be  sittin'  in 
their  seats  wonderin'  what  my  text's  to  be,  but 
you'll  ken,  mother,  an"  you'll  turn  up  to  "Thou 
God  seest  me,"  afore  I  gie  oot  the  chapter.'  Ay, 
but  that  day  he  was  coffined,  for  all  the  minister 
prayed,  I  found  it  hard  to  say  '  Thou  God  seest 
me.'  It's  the  text  I  like  best  noo,  though,  an' 
when  Hendry  an'  Leeby  is  at  the  kirk,  I  turn't  up 
often,  often  in  the  Bible.  I  read  frae  the  begin- 
nin'  o'  the  chapter,  but  when  I  come  to  'Thou 
God.  seest  me,'  I  stop.  Na,  it's  no  'at  there's  ony 


A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  4.9 

rebellion  to  the  Lord  in  my  heart  noo,  for  I  ken 
He  was  lookin'  doon  when  the  cart  gaed  over 
Joey,  an'  He  wanted  to  tak  my  laddie  to  Himsel'. 
But  juist  when  I  come  to  '  Thou  God  seest  me,' 
I  let  the  book  lie  in  my  lap,  for  aince  a  body's 
sure  o'  that  they're  sure  o'  all.  Ay,  ye'll  laugh, 
but  I  think,  mebbe  juist  because  I  was  his  mother, 
'at  though  Joey  never  lived  to  preach  in  a  kirk, 
he's  preached  frae  '  Thou  God  seest  me '  to  me. 
I  dinna  ken  'at  I  would  ever  hae  been  sae  sure  o' 
that  if  it  hadna  been  for  him,  an'  so  I  think  I  see 
'im  sailin'  doon  to  the  pulpit  juist  as  he  said  he. 
would  do.  I  seen  him  gien  me  the  look  he  spoke 
o' — ay,  he  looks  my  wy  first,  an'  I  ken  it's  him. 
Naebody  sees  him  but  me,  but  I  see  him  gien  me 
the  look  he  promised.  He's  so  terrible  near  me, 
an'  him  dead,  'at  when  my  time  comes  I'll  be  rale 
willin'  to  go.  I  dinna  say  that  to  Jamie,  because 
he  all  trembles  ;  but  I'm  auld  noo,  an'  I'm  no  nane 
loth  to  gang." 

Jess'  staff  probably  had  a  history  before  it  be- 
came hers,  for,  as  known  to  me,  it  was  always 
old  and  black.  If  we  studied  them  sufficiently 
we  might  discover  that  staves  age  perceptibly, 
just  as  the  hair  turns  gray.  At  the  risk  of  being 
thought  fanciful,  I  dare  to  say  that  in  inanimate 
objects,  as  in  ourselves,  there  is  honorable  and 
shameful  old  age,  and  that  to  me  Jess'  staff  was 
a  symbol  of  the  good,  the  true.  It  rested  against 
her  in  the  window,  and  she  was  so  helpless  with- 
4 


50  A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

out  it  when  on  her  feet,  that  to  those  who  saw 
much  of  her,  it  was  part  of  herself.  The  staff  was 
very  short,  nearly  a  foot  having  been  cut,  as  I 
think  she  once  told  me  herself,  from  the  original, 
of  which  to  make  a  porridge  thieval  (or  stick 
with  which  to  stir  porridge),  and  in  moving  Jess 
leant  heavily  on  it.  Had  she  stood  erect,  it 
would  not  have  touched  the  floor.  This  was  the 
staff  that  Jess  shook  so  joyfully  at  her  boy  the 
forenoon  in  May,  when  he  ran  out  to  his  death. 
Joey,  however,  was  associated  in  Jess'  memory 
with  her  staff,  in  less  painful  ways.  When  she 
spoke  of  him  she  took  the  dwarf  of  a  staff  in  her 
hands  and  looked  at  it  softly. 

"  It's  hard  to  me,"  she  would  say,  "  to  believe 
'at  twa  an'  twenty  years  hae  come  and  gone  since 
the  nicht  Joey  hod  (hid)  my  staff.  Ay,  but  Hen- 
dry  was  straucht  in  thae  days  by  what  he  is  noo, 
an'  Jamie  wasna  born.  Twa  an'  twenty  years 
come  the  back  end  o'  the  year,  an'  it  wasna 
thocht  'at  I  could  live  through  the  winter.  '  Ye'll 
no  last  mair  than  anither  month,  Jess/  was  what 
my  sister  Bell  said,  when  she  came  to  see  me, 
and  yet  here  I  am,  aye  sittin'  at  my  window,  an' 
Bell's  been  i'  the  kirkyard  this  dozen  years. 

"Leeby  was  saxteen  month  younger  than 
Joey,  an'  mair  quiet  like.  Her  heart  was  juist 
set  on  helpin'  aboot  the  hoose,  an'  though  she 
was  but  fower  year  auld  she  could  kindle  the 
fire  an'  redd  up  (clean  up)  the  room.  Leeby'e 


A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  51 

been  my  savin'  ever  since  she  was  fower  year 
auld  Ay,  but  it  was  Joey  'at  hung  aboot  me 
maist,  an'  he  took  notice  'at  I  wasna  gaen  out  as 
I  used  to  do.  Since  sune  after  my  marriage  I've 
needed  the  stick,  but  there  was  days  'at  I  could 
gang  across  the  road  an'  sit  on  a  stane.  Joey 
kent  there  was  something  wrang  when  I  had  to 
gie  that  up,  an'  syne  he  noticed  'at  I  couldna 
even  gang  to  the  window  unless  Hendry  kind  o' 
carried  me.  Na,  ye  wouldna  think  'at  there 
could  hae  been  days  when  Hendry  did  that,  but 
he  did.  He  was  a  sort  o'  ashamed  if  ony  o'  the 
neighbors  saw  him  so  affectionate  like,  but  he 
was  terrible  taen  up  aboot  me.  His  loom  was 
doon  at  T'nowhead's,  Bell's  father's,  an'  often  he 
cam'  avva  up  to  see  if  I  was  ony  better.  He  did- 
na  lat  on  to  the  other  weavers  'at  he  was  comin' 
to  see  what  like  I  was.  Na,  he  juist  said  he'd 
forgotten  a  pirn,  or  his  cruizey  lamp,  oronything 
Ah,  but  he  didna  mak  nae  pretence  o'  no  carin' 
for  me  aince  he  was  inside  the  hoose.  He  came 
crawlin'  to  the  bed,  no  to  wauken  me  if  I  was 
sleepin',  an'  mony  a  time  I  made  belief  'at  I  was, 
juist  to  please  him.  It  was  an  awfu'  business  on 
him  to  hae  a  young  wife  sae  helpless,  but  he 
wasna  the  man  to  cast  that  at  me.  I  mind  o' 
sayin'  to  him  one  day  in  my  bed,  'Ye  made  a 
poor  bargain,  Hendry,  when  ye  took  me.'  But 
he  says,  'Not  one  soul  in  Thrums  '11  daur  say 
that  to  me  but  yersel',  Jess.  Na,  na,  my  dawtv. 


$2  A    WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

you're  the  wuman  o'  my  choice  ;  there's  juist  one 
wuman  i'  the  warld  to  me,  an'  that's  you,  my  am 
Jess.'  Tvva  an'  twenty  years  syne.  Ay,  Hendry 
called  me  fond  like  names,  thae  no  everyday 
names.  What  a  straucht  man  he  was  I 

"  The  doctor  had  said  he  could  do  no  more  for 
me,  an'  Hendry  was  the  only  ane  'at  didna  gie 
me  up.  The  bairns,  of  course,  didna  understan', 
and  Joey  would  come  into  the  bed  and  play  on 
the  top  o'  me.  Hendry  would  hae  ta'en  him 
awa,  but  I  liked  to  hae  'im.  Ye  see,  \ve  was 
lang  married  afore  we  had  a  bairn,  an'  though  I 
couldna  bear  ony  other  weight  on  me,  Joey  didna 
hurt  me,  somehoo.  I  liked  to  hae  'im  so  close  to 
me. 

"  It  was  through  that  'at  he  came  to  bury  my 
staff.  I  couldna  help  often  thinkin'  o'  what  like 
the  hoose  would  be  when  I  was  gone,  an'  aboot 
Leeby  an'  Joey  left  so  young.  So,  when  I  could 
say  it  without  greetin',  I  said  to  Joey  'at  I  was 
goin'  far  awa,  an'  would  he  be  a  terrible  guid  lad- 
die to  his  father  and  Leeby  when  I  was  gone  ? 
He  aye  juist  said,  'Dinna  gang,  mother,  dinna 
gang,'  but  one  day  Hendry  came  in  frae  his  loom, 
and  says  Joey,  'Father,  whaur's  my  mother  gaen 
to,  awa  frae  us  ? '  I'll  never  forget  Hendry's  face. 
His  mouth  juist  opened  an'  shut  twa  or  three 
times,  an'  he  walked  quick  ben  to  the  room.  I 
cried  oot  to  him  to  come  back,  but  he  didna  come, 
so  I  sent  Joey  for  him.  Joey  came  runnin'  back 


A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  53 

to  me  savin',    '  Mother,    mother,   am  awfu'    fleid 
(frightened),  for  my  father's  greetin'  sair. ' 

"A"  thae  things  took  a  haud  o'  Joey,  an'  he 
ended  in  gien  us  a  fl  g  (Light).  I  was  sleepin' 
ill  at  the  time,  an'  Hendr  was  ben  sleepin'  in  the 
room  wi'  Leeby,  Joey  bein'  wi'  me.  Ay,  weel, 
one  nicht  I  wok  up  in  the  dark  an'  put  oot  my 
hand  to  'im,  an'  he  wasna  there.  I  sat  up  wi'  a 
terrible  start,  an'  syne  I  kent  by  the  cauld  'at  the 
door  maun  be  open.  I  cried  oot  quick  to  Hendry, 
but  he  was  a  soond  sleeper,  an'  he  didna  hear 
me.  Ay,  I  dinna  ken  hoo  I  did  it,  but  I  got  ben 
to  the  room  an'  I  shook  him  up.  I  was  near  daft 
wi'  fear  when  I  saw  Leeby  wasna  there  either. 
Hendry  couldna  talc  it  in  a'  at  aince,  but  sune  he 
had  his  trousers  on,  an'  he  made  me  lie  down  on 
his  bed.  He  said  he  wouldna  move  till  I  did  it, 
or  I  wouldna  hae  dune  it.  As  sune  as  he  was 
oot  o'  the  hoose  crying  their  names  I  sat  up  in 
my  bed  listenin'.  Sune  I  heard  speakin',  an'  in  a 
minute  Leeby  comes  runnin'  in  to  me,  roarin'  an' 
greetin'.  She  was  barefeeted,  and  had  juist  her 
nichtgown  on,  an'  her  teeth  was  chatterin'.  I 
took  her  into  the  bed,  but  it  was  an  hour  afore 
she  could  tell  me  onything,  she  was  in  sic  a  state. 

"Sune  after  Hendry  came  in  carryin'  Joey. 
Joey  was  as  naked  as  Leeby,  and  as  cauld  as  lead, 
but  he  wasnagreetin'.  Instead  o'  that  he  was  awfu' 
satisfied  like,  and  for  all  Hendry  threatened  to  lick 
him  he  wouldna  tell  what  he  an'  Leeby  had  been 


54  A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

doin'.  He  says,  though,  says  he,  "  Ye'll  no  gang 
awa  noo,  mother  ;  no,  ye'll  bide  noo."  My  bonny 
laddie,  I  didna  fathom  him  at  the  time. 

"  It  was  Leeby  'at  I  got  it  frae.  You  see,  Joey 
had  never  seen  me  gaen  ony  gait  vvithoot  my 
staff,  an'  he  thocht  if  he  hod  it  I  wouldna  be  able 
to  gang  away.  Ay,  he  planned  it  all  oot,  though 
he  was  but  a  bairn,  an'  lay  watchin'  me  in  my 
bed  till  I  fell  asleep.  Syne  he  creepit  oot  o'  the 
bed,  an'  got  the  staff,  and  gaed  ben  for  Leeby. 
She  was  fleid,  but  he  said  it  was  the  only  wy  to 
mak  me  'at  I  couldna  gang  awa.  It  was  juist 
ower  there  whaur  thae  cabbages  is  'at  he  dug  the 
bole  wi'  a  spade,  an'  buried  the  stafi  Hendry 
dug  it  up  next  mornin'." 


A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  55 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE   STATEMENT   OF  TIBBIE   BIRSE. 

ON  a  Thursday  Pete  Lownie  was  buried,  and 
when  Hendry  returned  from  the  funeral  Jess 
asked  if  Davit  Lunan  had  been  there. 

"Na,"  said  Hendry,  who  was  shut  up  in  the 
closet-bed,  taking  off  his  blacks,  "I  heard  tell  he 
wasna  bidden." 

"Yea,  yea,"  said  Jess,  nodding  to  me  signifi- 
cantly. "Ay,  weel,"  she  added,  "we'll  be 
hae'n  Tibbie  ower  here  on  Saturday  to  deave's 
(weary  us)  to  death aboot  it." 

Tibbie,  Davit's  wife,  was  sister  to  Marget,  Pete's 
widow,  and  she  generally  did  visit  Jess  on  Satur- 
day night  to  talk  about  Marget,  who  was  fast  be- 
coming one  o'  the  most  fashionable  persons  in 
Thrums.  Tibbie  was  hopelessly  plebeian.  She 
was  none  o'  your  proud  kind,  and  if  I  entered  the 
kitchen  when  she  was  there  she  pretended  not  to 
see  me,  so  that,  if  I  chose,  I  might  escape  with- 
out speaking  to  the  like  of  her.  I  always  grabbed 
her  hand,  however,  in  a  frank  way. 

On  Saturday  Tibbie  made  her  appearance. 
^OITS  the  rapidity  of  her  walk,  and  the  way  she 


56  A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

was  sucking  in  her  mouth,  I  knew  that  she  had 
strange  things  to  unfold.  She  had  pinned  a  gray 
shawl  about  her  shoulders  and  wore  a  black 
mutch  over  her  dangling  gray  curls. 

"It's  you,  Tibbie,"  I  heard  Jess  say,  as  the 
door  opened. 

Tibbie  did  not  knock,  not  considering  herself 
grand  enough  for  ceremony,  and  indeed  Jess 
would  have  resented  her  knocking.  On  the  other 
hand,  when  Leeby  visited  Tibbie,  she  knocked  as 
politely  as  if  she  were  collecting  for  the  precen- 
tor's present.  All  this  showed  that  we  were  su- 
perior socially  to  Tibbie. 

"  Ay,  hoo  are  ye,  Jess  ? "  Tibbie  said. 

"Muckle  aboot  it,"  answered  Jess;  "juist  aff 
an'  on  ;  ay,  an'  hoo  hae  ye  been  yersel'  ?  " 

"•  Ou,"  said  Tibbie. 

I  wish  I  could  write  "ou"  as  Tibbie  said  it. 
With  her  it  was  usually  a  sentence  in  itself. 
Sometimes  it  was  a  mere  bark,  again  it  expressed 
indignation,  surprise,  rapture ;  it  might  be  a 
check  upon  emotion  or  a  way  of  leading  up  to  it, 
and  often  it  lasted  for  half  a  minute.  In  this  in- 
stance it  was,  I  should  say,  an  intimation  that  if 
Jess  was  ready  Tibbie  would  begin. 

"So  Pete  Lownie's  gone, "said  Jess,  whom  I 
could  not  see  from  ben  the  house.  I  had  a  good 
glimpse  of  Tibbie,  however,  through  the  open 
doorways.  She  had  the  armchair  on  the  south 
side,  as  she  would  have  said,  of  the  fireplace. 


A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  57 

"He's  awa," assented  Tibbie,  primly. 

I  heard  the  lid  of  the  kettle  dancing,  and  then 
came  a  prolonged  "  ou."  Tibbie  bent  forward  to 
whisper,  and  if  she  had  anything  terrible  to  tell  I 
was  glad  of  that,  for  when  she  whispered  I  heard 
her  best.  For  a  time  only  a  murmur  of  words 
reached  me,  distant  music  with  an  "ou"  now 
and  again  that  fired  Tibbie  as  the  beating  of  his 
drum  may  rouse  the  martial  spirit  of  a  drummer. 
At  last  our  visitor  broke  into  an  agitated  whisper, 
and  it  was  only  when  she  stopped  whispering,  as 
she  did  now  and  again,  that  I  ceased  to  hear  her. 
Jess  evidently  put  a  question  at  times,  but  so 
politely  (for  she  had  on  her  best  wrapper)  that  I 
did  not  catch  a  word. 

"Though  I  should  be  struck  deid  this  nicht, " 
Tibbie  whispered,  and  the  sibilants  hissed  be- 
tween her  few  remaining  teeth,  "I  wasna  sae 
muckle  as  speired  to  the  layin'  oot.  There  was 
Mysy  Cruikshanks  there,  an'  Kitty  Webster  'at 
was  nae  friends  to  the  corpse  to  speak  o',  but 
Marget  passed  by  me,  me  'at  is  her  ain  flesh  an' 
blood,  though  it  mayna  be  for  the  like  o'  me  to 
say  it.  It's  gospel  truth,  Jess,  I  tell  ye,  when  I 
say  'at  for  all  I  ken  officially,  as  ye  micht  say, 
Pete  Lownie  may  be  weel  and  hearty  this  day. 
If  I  was  to  meet  Marget  in  the  face  I  couldna  say 
he  was  deid,  though  I  ken  'at  the  wricht  coffined 
him  ;  na,  an'  what's  mair,  I  wouldna  gie  Marget 
the  satisfaction  o'  hearin'  me  say  it  No,  Jess,  \ 


58  A   WINDOW  M  THRUMS. 

tell  ye,  I  dinna  pertend  to  be  on  an  equalty  wi' 
Marget,  but  equalty  or  no  equalty,  a  body  has 
her  feelings,  an'  lat  on  'at  I  ken  Pete's  gone  I  will 
not.  Eh  ?  Ou,  weel.  .  .  . 

"  Na  faag  'na  ;  na,  na.  I  ken  my  place  better 
than  to  gang  near  Marget.  I  dinna  deny  'at  she's 
grand  by  me,  and  her  keeps  a  bakehoose  o'  her 
ain,  an'  glad  am  I  to  see  her  doin'  sae  weel,  but 
let  me  tell  ye  this,  Jess,  '  Pride  goeth  before  a 
fall.'  Yes,  it  does,  it's  Scripture;  ay,  it's  nae 
mak-up  o'  mine,  it's  Scripture.  And  this  I  will 
say,  though  kennin'  my  place,  'at  Davit  Lunan  is 
as  dainty  a  man  as  is  in  Thrums,  an'  there's  no 
one  'at's  better  behaved  at  a  bural,  being  particu- 
larly wise-like  (presentable)  in's  blacks,  an'  them 
spleet  new.  Na,  na,  Jess,  Davit  may  hae  his 
faults  an'  tak  a  dram  at  times  like  anither,  but  he 
would  shame  naebody  at  a  bural,  an'  Marget 
deleeberately  insulted  him,  no  speirin'  him  to 
Pete's.  What's  mair,  when  the  minister  cried  in 
to  see  me  yesterday,  an'  me  on  the  floor  washin', 
says  he,  'So  Marget's  lost  her  man,'  an'  I  said, 
'  Say  ye  so,  na  ? '  for  let  on  'at  I  kent,  and  neither 
me  at  the  laying  oot  nor  Davit  Lunan  at  the 
funeral,  I  would  not. 

"  '  Davit  should  hae  gone  to  the  funeral,'  says 
the  minister,  'for  I  doubt  not  he  was  only  omit- 
ted in  the  invitations  by  a  mistake.' 

"  Ay,  it  was  weel  meant,  but,  says  I,  Jess, 
says  I,  '  As  lang  as  am  livin'  to  tak  chairg o  •' 


A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  59 

'im,  Davit  Lunan  gangs  to  nae  burals  'at  he's  no 
bidden  to.  An'  I  tell  ye,'  I  says  to  the  minister, 
'  if  there  was  one  body  'at  had  a  richt  to  be  at  th« 
bural  o'  Pete  Lownie,  it  was  Davit  Lunan,  him 
bein'  my  man  an'  Marget  my  ain  sister.  Yes,' 
says  I,  though  am  no  o'  the  boastin'  kind,  '  Davit 
had  maist  richt  to  be  there  next  to  Pete  'imsel'. 
Ou,  Jess.  .  .  . 

"This  is  no  a  maitter  I  like  to  speak  aboot ; 
na,  I  dinna  care  to  mention  it,  but  the  neighbors 
is  nat'rally  ta'en  up  aboot  it,  and  Chirsty  Tosh 
was  sayin'  what  I  would  wager  'at  Marget  hadna 
sent  the  minister  to  hint  'at  Davit's  bein'  over- 
lookit  in  the  invitations  was  juist  an  accident  ? 
Losh,  losh,  Jess,  to  think  'at  a  woman  could  hae 
the  michty  assurance  to  mak'  a  tool  o'  the  very 
minister  !  But,  sal,  as  far  as  that  gangs,  Marget 
would  do  it,  an'  gae  twice  to  the  kirk  next  Sab- 
bath, too  ;  but  if  she  thinks  she's  to  get  ower  me 
like  that,  she  tak's  me  for  a  bigger  fule  than  I  tak 
her  for.  Na,  na,  Marget,  ye  dinna  draw  my  leg 
(deceive  me).  Ou,  no.  .  .  . 

"Mind  ye,  Jess,  I  hae  no  desire  to  be  friends 
wi*  Marget.  Naething  could  be  farrer  frae  my 
wish  than  to  hae  helpit  in  the  layin'  oot  '  Pete 
Lownie,  an'  I  assure  ye,  Davit  wasna  'Keen  to 
gang  to  the  bural.  'If  they  dinna  want  me  to 
their  burals,'  Davit  says,  'they  hae  nae  mair 
to  do  than  to  say  sae.  But  I  warn  ye,  Tibbie,' 
he  says,  '  if  there's  a  bural  frae  this  hoose,  b* 


60  A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

it  your  bural,  or  be  it  my  bural,  not  one  o'  the 
family  o'  Lownies  casts  their  shadows  upon  the 
Corp.'  Thae  was  the  very  words  Davit  said 
to  me  as  we  watched  the  hearse  frae  the  sky- 
licht  Ay,  he  bore  up  wonderfu',  but  he  felt 
it,  Jess — he  felt  it,  as  I  could  tell  by  his 
takkin'  to  drink  again  that  very  nicht  Jess, 
Jess.  .  .  . 

"Marget's  getting  waur  an'  waur?  Ay,  ye 
may  say  so,  though  I'll  say  naething  ag'in  her 
mysel'.  Of  coorse  am  no  on  equally  \vi'  her, 
especially  since  she  had  the  bell  put  up  in  her 
hoose.  Ou,  I  hinna  seen  it  mysel',  na,  I  never 
gang  near  the  hoose,  an',  as  mony  a  body  can 
tell  ye,  when  I  do  hae  to  gang  that  wy  I  mak' 
my  feet  my  friend.  Ay,  but  as  I  was  sayin', 
Marget's  sae  grand  noo  'at  she  has  a  bell  in  the 
hoose.  As  I  understan',  there's  a  rope  in  the  wast 
room,  an'  when  ye  pu'  it  a  bell  rings  in  the  east 
room.  Weel,  when  Marget  has  company  at 
their  tea  in  the  wast  room,  an'  they  need  mair 
watter  or  scones  or  onything,  she  rises  an'  rings 
the  bell.  Syne  Jean,  the  auldest  lassie,  gets  up 
frae  the  table  an'  lifts  the  jug  or  the  plates,  an' 
gaes  awa  ben  to  the  east  room  for  what's  wanted. 
Ay,  it's  a  wy  o'  doin,  'at's  juist  like  the  gentry, 
but  I'll  tell  ye,  Jess,  Pete  juist  fair  hated  the 
soond  o'  that  bell,  an'  there's  them  'at  says  it  was 
the  death  o'  'im.  To  think  o'  Marget  ha'en  sic  an 
establishment  !  . 


A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  6 1 

"  Na,  I  hinna  seen  the  mournin',  I've  heard 
o't.  Na,  if  Marget  doesna  tell  me  naething,  am 
no  the  kind  to  speir  naething,  an'  though  I'll  be 
at  the  kirk  the  morn,  I  winna  turn  my  heid  to 
look  at  the  mournin'.  But  it's  fac,  as  death  I 
ken  frae  Janet  McQuhatty  'at  the  bonnet's  a' 
crape,  an'  three  yairds  o'  crape  on  the  dress,  the 
which  Marget  calls  a  costume.  .  .  .  Ay,  I 
wouldna  wonder  but  what  it  was  hale  watter  the 
morn,  for  it  looks  michty  like  rain,  an'  if  it  is  it'll 
serve  Marget  richt,  an'  mebbe  bring  doon  her 
pride  a  wee.  No  'at  I  want  to  see  her  humbled, 
for,  in  coorse,  she's  grand  by  the  like  o'  me.  Ou, 
but  . 


6a  A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS, 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

A  CLOAK   WITH     BEADS. 

ON  week-days  the  women  who  passed  the  win- 
dow were  meagrely  dressed  ;  mothers  in  draggled 
winsey  gowns,  carrying  infants  that  were  arm- 
fuls  of  grandeur.  The  Sabbath  clothed  every  one 
in  her  best,  and  then  the  women  went  by  with 
their  hands  spread  out.  When  I  was  with  Hen- 
dry,  cloaks  with  beads  were  the  fashion,  and  Jess 
sighed  as  she  looked  at  them.  They  were  known 
in  Thrums  as  the  Eleven  and  a  Bits  (threepenny 
bits),  that  being  their  price  at  Kyowowy's  on 
the  square.  Kyowowy  means  finicky,  and  ap- 
plied to  the  draper  by  general  consent.  No 
doubt  it  was  very  characteristic  to  call  the  cloaks 
by  their  market  value.  In  the  glen  my  scholars 
still  talk  of  their  school-books  as  the  tupenny,  the 
fowerpenny,  the  saxpenny.  They  finish  their 
education  with  the  tenpenny. 

Jess'  opportunity  for  handling  the  garments 
that  others  of  her  sex  could  finger  in  shops,  was 
when  she  had  guests  to  tea.  Persons  who 
merely  dropped  in  and  remained  to  tea,  got  their 
meal,  as  a  rule,  in  the  kitchen.  They  had  noth- 


A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  63 

ing  on  that  Jess  could  not  easily  take  in  as 
she  talked  to  them.  But  when  they  came  by 
special  invitation,  the  meal  was  served  in  the 
room,  the  guests'  things  being  left  on  the  kitchen 
bed.  Jess  not  being  able  to  go  ben  the  house, 
had  to  be  left  with  the  things.  When  the  time  to 
go  arrived,  these  were  found  on  the  bed,  just  as 
they  had  been  placed  there,  but  Jess  could  now 
tell  Leeby  whether  they  were  imitation,  why 
Bell  Elshioner's  feather  went  far  round  the  bon- 
net, and  Chirsty  Lownie's  reason  for  always  hold- 
ing her  left  arm  fast  against  her  side  when  she 
went  abroad  in  the  black  jacket.  Ever  since  My 
Hobart's  eleven  and  a  bit  was  left  on  the  kitchen 
bed,  Jess  had  hungered  for  a  cloak  with  beads. 
My's  was  the  very  marrow  of  the  one  T'novv- 
head's  wife  got  in  Dundee  for  ten-and-sixpence ; 
indeed,  we  would  have  thought  that  'Lisbeth's 
also  came  from  Kyowowy's,  had  not  Sanders 
Elshioner's  sister  seen  her  go  into  the  Dundee 
shop  with  T'nowhead  (who  was  loth),  and  hung 
about  to  discover  what  she  was  after. 

Hendry  was.  not  quick  at  reading  faces  like 
Tammas  Haggart,  but  the  wistful  look  on  Jess* 
face  when  there  was  talk  of  eleven  and  a  bits  had 
its  meaning  for  him. 

"They're  grand  to  look  at,  no  doubt,"  I  have 
heard  him  say  to  Jess,  "but  they're  richt  an- 
noyin'.  That  new  wife  o'  Peter  Dickie's  had  ane 
on  in  the  kirk  last  Sabbath,  an'  wi*  her  sittin' 


64  A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

juist  afore  us  I  couldna  listen  to  the  sermon  for 
try-in'  to  count  the  beads. " 

Hendry  made  his  way  into  these  gossips  unin- 
vited, for  his  opinions  on  dress  were  considered 
contemptible,  though  he  was  worth  consulting  on 
material.  Jess  and  Leeby  discussed  many  things 
in  his  presence,  confident  that  his  ears  were  not 
doing  their  work  ;  but  every  now  and  then  it  was 
discovered  that  he  had  been  hearkening  greedily. 
If  the  subject  was  dress,  he  might  then  become  a 
little  irritating. 

"  Oh,  they're  grand,"  Jess  admitted  ;  "  they  set 
a  body  aff  oncommon." 

"They  would  be  no  use  to  you,"  said  Hendry, 
"for  ye  canna  wear  them  except  ootside." 

"A  body  doesna  buy  cloaks  to  be  wearin'  at 
them  steady,"  retorted  Jess. 

"No,  no,  but  you  could  never  wear  yours 
though  ye  had  ane. " 

"I  dinna  want  ane.  They're  far  ower  grand 
for  the  like  o*  me. " 

"They're  no  nae  sic  thing.  Am  thinkin'  ye're 
juist  as  fit  to  wear  an  eleven  and  a  bit  as  My  Ho- 
bart" 

"  Weel,  mebbe  I  am,  but  it's  oot  o'  the  question 
gettin'  ane,  they're  sic  a  price." 

"Ay,  an'  though  we  had  the  siller,  it  would 
surely  be  an  awfu'  like  thing  to  buy  a  cloak  'at  ye 
could  never  wear  ?  " 

"Ou,  but  I  dinna  want  ane," 


A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  65 

Jess  spoke  so  mournfully  that  Hendry  became 
enraged. 

"It's  most  michty,"  he  said,  "'at  ye  would 
gang  an'  set  yer  heart  on  sic  a  completely  use- 
less thing. " 

"I  hinna  set  my  heart  on't. " 

"Dinna  blether.  Ye've  been  speakin'  aboot 
thae  eleven  and  a  bits  to  Leeby,  aff  an'  on,  for 
twa  month." 

Then  Hendry  hobbled  off  to  his  loom,  and  Jess 
gave  me  a  look  which  meant  that  men  are  trying 
at  the  best,  once  you  are  tied  to  them. 

The  cloaks  continued  to  turn  up  in  conversation, 
and  Hendry  poured  scorn  upon  Jess'  weakness, 
telling  her  she  would  be  better  employed  mend- 
ing his  trousers  than  brooding  over  an  eleven  and 
a  bit  that  would  have  to  spend  its  life  in  a  drawer. 
An  outsider  would  have  thought  that  Hendry  was 
positively  cruel  to  Jess.  He  seemed  to  take  a 
delight  in  finding  that  she  had  neglected  to  sew  a 
button  on  his  waistcoat.  His  real  joy,  however, 
was  the  knowledge  that  she  sewed  as  no  other 
woman  in  Thrums  could  sew.  Jess  had  a  genius 
for  making  new  garments  out  of  old  ones,  and 
Hendry  never  tired  of  gloating  over  her  clever- 
ness so  long  as  she  was  not  present.  He  was 
always  athirst  for  fresh  proofs  of  it,  and  these 
were  forthcoming  every  day.  Sparing  were  his 
words  of  praise  to  herself,  but  in  the  evening  he 
generally  had  3  smoke  with  me  in  the  attic,  and 
5 


66  A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

then  the  thought  of  Jess  made  him  chuckle  till 
his  pipe  went  out.  When'  he  smoked  he  grunted 
as  if  in  pain,  though  this  really  added  to  the  enjoy- 
ment. 

"It  doesna  matter,"  he  would  say  to  me, 
"what  Jess  turns  her  hand  to,  she  can  mak  ony 
mortal  thing.  She  doesna  need  naeteachin'  ;  na, 
juist  gie  her  a  guid  look  at  onything,  be  it  clothes, 
or  furniture,  or  in  the  bakin'  line,  it's  all  the  same 
to  her.  She'll  mak  another  exactly  like  it.  Ye 
canna  beat  her.  Her  bannocks  is  so  superior  'at 
a  Tilliedrum  woman  took  to  her  bed  after  tastin' 
them,  an'  when  the  lawyer  has  company  his  wife 
gets  Jess  to  mak  some  bannocks  for  her  an'  syne 
pretends  they're  her  ain  bakin'.  Ay,  there's  a 
story  aboot  that.  One  day  the  auld  doctor,  him 
'at's  deid,  was  at  his  tea  at  the  lawyer's,  an'  says 
the  guidwife,  '  Try  the  cakes,  Mr.  Riach  ;  they're 
my  own  bakin'.'  Weel,  he  was  a  fearsomely  out- 
spoken man,  the  doctor,  an'  nae  suner  had  he  the 
bannock  atween  his  teeth,  for  he  didna  stop  to 
swallow't,  than  he  says,  'Mistress  Geddie,'  says 
he,  '  I  wasna  born  on  a  Sabbath.  Na,  na,  you're 
no  the  first  grand  leddy  ?at  has  gien  me  bannocks 
as  their  ain  bakin'  'at  was  baked  and  fired  by  Jess 
Logan,  her  'at's  Hendry  McQumpha's  wife.'  Ay, 
they  say  the  lawyer's  wife  didna  ken  which  wy 
to  look,  she  was  that  mortified.  It's  juist  the 
same  wi'  sewin'.  There's  wys  o'  ornamentin' 
christenin'  robes  an'  the  like  'at's  kent  to  naebody 


A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  67 

but  hersel' ;  an'  as  for  stockin's,  weel  though  I've 
seen  her  mak  sae  mony,  she  amazes  me  yet.  I 
mind  o'  a  furry  waistcoat  I  aince  had.  Weel,  when 
it  was  fell  dune,  do  you  think  she  gae  it  awa  to 
some  gaen  aboot  body  (vagrant)  ?  Na,  she  made 
it  into  a  richt  neat  coat  to  Jamie,  wha  was  a  bit 
laddie  at  the  time.  When  he  grew  out  o'  it,  she 
made  a  slipbody  o't  for  hersel'.  Ay,  I  dinna  ken 
a'  the  different  things  it  became,  but  the  last  time 
I  saw  it  was  ben  in  the  room,  whaur  she'd  cov- 
ered a  footstool  wi'  't.  Yes,  Jess  is  the  cleverest 
crittur  I  ever  saw.  Leeby's  handy,  but  she's  no 
a  patch  on  her  mother. " 

I  sometimes  repeated  these  panegyrics  to  Jess. 
She  merely  smiled,  and  said  that  men  haver 
most  terribly  when  they  are  not  at  their  work. 

Hendry  tried  Jess  sorely  over  the  cloaks,  and 
a  time  carne  when,  only  by  exasperating  her, 
could  he  get  her  to  reply  to  his  sallies. 

"Wha  wants  an  eleven  an'  a  bit? "  she  retorted 
now  and  again. 

"It's  you  'at  wants  it,"  said  Hendry  promptly. 

"Did  I  ever  say  I  wanted  ane  ?  What  use 
could  I  hae  for't  ?  " 

"That's  the  question,"  said  Hendry.  "Ye 
canna  gang  the  length  o'  the  door,  so  ye  would 
never  be  able  to  wear't. " 

"Ay,  weel,"  replied  Jess,  "I'll  never  hae  the 
chance  o'  no  bein'  able  to  wear't,  for,  hooever 
muckle  I  wanted  it,  I  couldna  get  it. " 


68  A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

Jess'  infatuation  had  in  time  the  effect  of  mak- 
ing Hendry  uncomfortable.  In  the  attic  he  de- 
livered himself  of  such  sentiments  as  these  : 

"There's  nae understandin' a  woman.  There's 
Jess  'at  hasna  her  equal  for  cleverness  in  Thrums, 
man  or  woman,  an'  yet  she's  fair  skeered  about 
thae  cloaks.  Aince  a  woman  sets  her  mind  on 
something  to  wear,  she's  mair  onreasonable  than 
the  stupidest  man.  Ay,  it  micht  mak  them  hum- 
ble to  see  hoo  foolish  they  are  syne.  No,  but  it 
doesna  do't. 

"  If  it  was  a  thing  to  be  useful  noo,  I  wouldna 
think  the  same  o't,  but  she  could  never  wear't. 
She  kens  she  could  never  wear't,  an'  yet  she's 
juist  as  keen  to  hae't. 

"I  dinna  like  to  see  her  so  wantin'  a  thing,  an' 
no  able  to  get  it.  But  it's  an  awfu'  sum,  eleven 
an'  a  bit. " 

He  tried  to  argue  with  her  further. 

"If  ye  had  eleven  an' a  bit  to  fling  awa, ''he 
said,  "ye  dinna  mean  to  tell  me 'at  ye  would 
buy  a  cloak  instead  o'  cloth  for  a  gown,  or  a 
flannel  for  petticoats,  or  some  useful  thing  ?  " 

"Assure  as  death,"  said  Jess,  with  unwonted 
vehemence,  "if  a  cloak  I  could  get,  a  cloak  I 
would  buy." 

Hendry  came  up  to  tell  me  what  Jess  had 
said. 

"It's  a  michty  infatooation,"  he  said,  "  but  it 
shows  hoo  her  heart's  set  on  thae  cloaks." 


A    WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  69 

"Ainceye  had  it,"  he  argued  with  her,  "ye 
would  juist  hae  to  lock  it  awa  in  the  drawers.  Ye 
would  never  even  be  seein'  't." 

"Ay,  would  I,"  said  Jess.  "  I  would  often  tak 
it  oot  an'  look  at  it.  Ay,  an'  I  would  aye  ken  it 
was  there. " 

"But  naebody  would  ken  ye  had  it  but  yersel'," 
said  Hendry,  who  had  a  vague  notion  that  this 
was  a  telling  objection. 

"Would  they  no?"  answered  Jess.  "It 
would  be  a'  through  the  toon  afore  nicht. " 

"Weel,  all  I  can  say,"  said  Hendry,  "is  'at 
ye're  terrible  foolish  to  tak  the  want  o'  sic  a  use- 
less thing  to  heart. " 

"Am  no  takkin'  't  to  heart,"  retorted  Jess,  as 
usual. 

Jess  needed  many  things  in  her  days  that  pov- 
erty kept  from  her  to  the  end,  and  the  cloak  was 
merely  a  luxury.  She  would  soon  have  let  it  slip 
by  as  something  unattainable  had  not  Hendry 
encouraged  it  to  rankle  in  her  mind.  I  cannot 
say  when  he  first  determined  that  Jess  should 
have  a  cloak,  come  the  money  as  it  liked,  for  he 
was  too  ashamed  of  his  weakness  to  admit  his 
project  to  me.  I  remember,  however,  his  saying 
to  Jess  one  day  : 

"I'll  warrant  ye  could  mak  a  cloak  yersel'  the 
marrow  o'  thae  eleven  and  a  bits,  at  half  the 
price  ? " 

"  It  would  cost,"  said  Jess,  "sax  an'  saxpence, 


70  A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

exactly.  The  cloth  would  be  five  shillin's,  an' the 
beads  a  shillin'.  I  have  some  braid  'at  would  do 
fine  for  the  front,  but  the  buttons  would  be  sax- 
pence.  " 

' '  Ye're  sure  o'  that  ? " 

"  I  ken  fine,  for  I  got  Leeby  to  price  the  things 
in  the  shop.'' 

' '  Ay,  but  it  maun  be  ill  to  shape  the  cloaks 
richt.  There  was  a  queer  cut  aboot  that  ane 
Peter  Dickie's  new  wife  had  on." 

"Queer  cut  or  no  queer  cut,"  said  Jess,  "I 
took  the  shape  o'  My  Hobart's  ane  the  day  she 
was  here  at  her  tea,  an'  I  could  mak'  the  identical 
o't  for  sax  and  sax." 

"I  dinna  believe't,"  said  Hendry,  but  when  he 
and  I  were  alone  he  told  me:  "There's  no  a 
doubt  she  could  mak  it.  Ye  heard  her  say  she  had 
ta'en  the  shape?  Ay,  that  shows  she's  rale  set 
on  a  cloak." 

Had  Jess  known  that  Hendry  had  been  saving 
up  for  months  to  buy  her  material  for  a  cloak,  she 
would  not  have  let  him  do  it.  She  could  not 
know,  however,  for  all  the  time  he  was  scraping 
together  his  pence  he  kept  up  a  ring-ding-dang 
about  her  folly.  Hendry  gave  Jess  all  the  wages 
he  weaved  except  three  pence  weekly,  most  of 
which  went  in  tobacco  and  snuff.  The  dulseman 
had  perhaps  a  halfpenny  from  him  in  the  fort- 
night. I  noticed  that  for  a  long  time  Hendry 
neither  smoked  nor  snuffed,  and  I  kne\v  that  for 


A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  71 

years  he  had  carried  a  shilling  in  his  snuff-mull. 
The  remainder  of  the  money  he  must  have  made 
by  extra  work  at  his  loom  by  working  harder,  for 
he  could  scarcely  have  worked  longer. 

It  was  one  day  shortly  before  Jamie's  return  to 
Thrums  that  Jess  saw  Hendry  pass  the  house 
and  go  down  the  brae  when  he  ought  to  have 
come  in  to  his  brose.  She  sat  at  the  window 
watching  for  him,  and  by  and  by  he  reappeared, 
carrying  a  parcel. 

"  Whaur  on  earth  hae  ye  been?"  she  asked, 
"  an'  what's  that  you're  carryin'?  " 

"  Did  ye  think  it  was  an  eleven  an'  a  bit  ?  "said 
Hendry. 

"  No,  I  didna,"  answered  Jess  indignantly. 

Then  Hendry  slowly  undid  the  knots  of  the 
string  with  which  the  parcel  was  tied.  He  took 
off  the  brown  paper. 

"  There's  yer  cloth,"  he  said,  "an'  here's  one 
an'  saxpence  for  the  beads  an'  the  buttons.'' 

While  Jess  still  stared  he  followed  me  ben  the 
house. 

"  It's  a  terrible  haver,"  he  said,  apologetically, 
"but  she  had  set  her  heart  on't" 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE    POWER    OF    BEAUTY. 

ONE  evening;  there  was  such  a  gathering  at  the 
pig-sty  that  Hendry  and  I  could  not  get  a  board 
to  lay  our  backs  against.  Circumstances  had 
pushed  Pete  Elshioner  into  the  place  of  honor 
that  belonged  by  right  of  mental  powers  to 
Tammas  Haggart,  and  Tammas  was  sitting  rather 
sullenly  on  the  bucket,  boring  a  hole  in  the  pig 
with  his  sarcastic  eye.  Pete  was  passing  round 
a  card,  and  in  time  it  reached  me.  "With  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  David  Alexander's  compliments,"  was 
printed  on  it,  and  Pete  leered  triumphantly  at  us 
as  it  went  the  round. 

"  Weel,  what  think  ye?  "  he  asked,  with  a  pre- 
tence at  modesty. 

"  Ou,"  said  T'nowhead,  looking  at  the  others 
like  one  who  asked  a  question,  "  ou,  I  think  ;  ay, 
ay." 

The  others  seemed  to  agree  with  him — all  but 
Tammas,  who  did  not  care  to  tie  himself  down  to 
an  opinion. 

"  Ou  ay,"  T'nowhead  continued,  more  confi- 
dently, "it  is  so,  deceededly. " 


A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  )$ 

"Ye'll  no  ken,"  said  Pete,  chuckling,  "what 
it  means  ? " 

"  Na,"  the  farmer  admitted,  "  na,  I  canna  say 
lexac'ly  ken  that." 

"  I  ken,  though,"  said  Tammas  in  his  keen 
way. 

"  Weel,  then,  what  is't  ? "  demanded  Pete,  who 
had  never  properly  come  under  Tammas'  spell. 

"  I  ken,"  said  Tammas. 

"  Got  wi't,  then." 

"  I  dinna  say  it's  lyin'  on  my  tongue,"  Tammas 
replied  in  a  tone  of  reproof,  "but  if  ye'll  juist 
speak  awa  aboot  some  other  thing  for  a  meenute 
or  twa,  I'll  tell  ye  syne." 

Hendry  said  that  this  was  only  reasonable,  but 
we  could  think  of  no  subject  at  the  moment,  so 
we  only  stared  at  Tammas  and  waited. 

"  I  fathomed  it,"  he  said  at  last,  "  as  sune  as 
my  een  lichted  on't.  It's  one  o'  the  bit  cards  'at 
grand  fowk  slip  'aneath  doors  when  they  mak  calls, 
an'  their  friends  is  no  in.  Ay,  that's  what  it  is." 

"  I  dinna  say  ye're  wrang,"  Pete  answered  a 
little  annoyed.  "Ay,  weel,  lads,  of  course  David 
Alexander's  oor  Dite  as  we  called 'im,  DiteElshio- 
ner,  an'  that's  his  wy  o'  signifyin'  to  us  'at  he's 
married." 

"  I  assure  ye,"  said  Hendry,  "  Dite's  doin'  the 
thing  in  style." 

"  Ay,  we  said  that  when  the  card  arrived," 
Pete  admitted. 


74  A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

"  I  kent,"  said  Tammas,  "  'at  that  was  the  wy 
grand  fowk  did  when  they  got  married.  I've  kent 
it  a  lang  time.  It's  no  nae  surprise  to  me." 

"  He's  been  lang  in  marry  in',"  Hookey  Crewe 
said. 

"  He  was  thirty  at  Martinmas,"  said  Pete. 

"  Thirty,  was  he?  "  said  Hookey.  "Man,  I'd 
buried  twa  wives  by  the  time  I  was  that  age,  an' 
was  castin'  aboot  for  a  third. " 

"I  mind  o'  them,"  Hendry  interposed. 

' '  Ay, "  Hookey  said,  ' '  the  first  twa  was  angels. " 
There  he  paused.  ' '  An'  so's  the  third, "  he  added, 
' '  in  many  respects. " 

"But  wha's  the  woman  Dite's  ta'en  ?  "  T'now- 
head  or  some  one  of  the  more  silent  members  of 
the  company  asked  of  Pete. 

"Ou,  we  dinna  ken  wha  she  is,"  answered 
Pete;  "but  she'll  be  some  Glasca  lassie,  for  he's 
there  noo.  Look,  lad,  look  at  this.  He  sent 
this  at  the  same  time;  it's  her  picture."  Pete 
produced  the  silhouette  of  a  young  lady,  and 
handed  it  round. 

"What  do  ye  think?  "  he  asked. 

"I  assure  ye  !  "  said  Hookey. 

"Sal,"  said  Hendry,  even  more  charmed, 
"Dite's  done  weel. " 

"  Lat's  see  her  in  a  better  licht,"  said  Tammas. 

He  stood  up  and  examined  the  photograph  nar- 
rowly, while  Pete  fidgeted  with  his  legs. 

"  Fairish,"  said  Tammas  at  last.     "  Ou,  ay  ;  no 


A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  f$ 

what  I  would  selec'  mysel',  but  a  dainty  bit 
stocky  !  Ou,  a  tasty  crittury  I  ay,  an'  she's  weel 
in  order.  Lads,  she's  a  fine  stoot  kimmer." 

"I  conseederher  a  beauty,"  said  Pete  aggres- 
sively. 

"She's  a'  that,"  said  Hendry. 

" A'  I  can  say,"  said  Hookey,  " is 'at  she  tak's 
me  most  michty." 

"She's  no  a  beauty,"  Tammas  maintained; 
"na,  she  doesna  juist  come  up  to  that ;  but  I 
dinna  deny  but  what  she's  weel-faured. " 

"What  faut  do  ye  find  wi'  her,  Tammas?" 
asked  Hendry. 

"Conseedered  critically, "said Tammas,  holding 
the  photograph  at  arm's  length,  ' '  I  would  say  'at 
she — let's  see,  noo  ;  ay,  I  would  say  'at  she's  de- 
feecient  in  genteelity." 

"Havers,"  said  Pete. 

"Na,"  said  Tammas,  "no  when  conseedered 
critically.  "Ye  see  she's  drawn  lauchin' ;  an'  the 
genteel  thing's  no  to  lauch,  but  juist  to  put  on  a 
bit  smirk.  Ay,  that's  the  genteel  thing." 

"A  smile,  thay  ca'  it,"  interposed  T'now- 
head. 

"  I  said  a  smile,"  continued  Tammas.  "Then 
there's  her  waist.  I  say  naething  ag'in  her  waist, 
speakin'  in  the  ord'nar  meanin' ;  but,  conseedered 
critically,  there's  a  want  o'  suppleness,  as  ye 
micht  say,  about  it.  Ay,  it  doesna  compare  wi' 
the  waist  o' "  [Here  Tammas  mentioned  a 


76  A   frltfDOW  2N  TtiRUMS. 

young  lady  who  had  recently  married  into  a  local 
county  family.] 

"That  was  a  pretty  tiddy,"  said  Hookey. 

"Ou,  losh,  ay  !  it  made  me  a  kind  o'  queery  to 
look  at  her." 

"  Ye're  ower  kyowowy  (particular),  Tammas," 
said  Pete. 

"It  maybe,  Pete,"  Tammas  admitted;  "but 
I  maun  say  I'm  fond  o'  a  bonny-looken  wuman, 
an'  no  easy  to  please  ;  na,  I'm  nat'rally  ane  o'  the 
critical  kind." 

"It's  extror'nar,"  said  T'nowhead,  "what  a 
poo'er  beauty  has.  I  mind  when  I  was  a  callant 
readin'  aboot  Mary  Queen  o'  Scots  till  I  was  fair 
mad,  lads  ;  yes,  I  was  fair  mad  at  her  bein'  deid. 
Ou,  I  could  hardly  sleep  at  nichts  for  thinking  o' 
her." 

"  Mary  was  spunky  as  weel  as  a  beauty,"  said 
Hookey,  "  an'  that's  the  kind  I  like.  Lads,  what 
a  persuasive  tid  she  was  !  " 

"She  got  roond  the  men,"  said  Hendry  ;  "ay, 
she  turned  them  roond  her  finger.  That's  the 
warst  o'  thae  beauties." 

"Idinna  gainsay, "said T'nowhead,  "but  what 
there  was  a  little  o'  the  deevil  in  Mary,  the  crit- 
tur." 

Here  T'nowhead  chuckled,  and  then  looked 
scared. 

"What  Mary  needed, "  said  Tammas,  "was  a 
strong  man  to  manage  her." 


A  WtNtiOW  IX  THRUMS.  -  ft 

'*  Ay,  man,  but  it's  ill  to  manage  thae  beauties. 
They  gie  ye  a  glint  o'  their  een,  an'  syne  whaur 
are  ye  ? " 

"Ah,  they  can  be  managed,"  said  Tammas 
complacently.  "There's  naebody  nat'rally  safter 
wi'  a  pretty  stocky  o'  bit  wumany  than  mysel'  ; 
but  for  a'  that,  if  I  had  been  Mary's  man,  I  would 
hae  stood  nane  o'  her  tantrums.  '  Na,  Mary,  my 
lass,'  I  would  hae  said,  'this  winna  do;  na,  na, 
ye're  a  bonny  body,  but  ye  maun  mind  'at  man's 
the  superior ;  ay,  man's  the  lord  o'  creation,  an1 
so  ye  maun  juist  sing  sma'.  That's  hoo  I  would 
hae  managed  Mary,  the  speerity  crittur  'at  she 
was. " 

"  Ye  would  hae  haen  yer  wark  cut  oot  for  ye, 
Tammas." 

"Ilka  mornin',"  pursued  Tammas,  "I  would 
hae  said  to  her:  'Mary,'  I  would  hae  said, 
'  wha's  to  wear  thae  breeks  the  day,  you  or  me  ? 
Ay,  syne  I  would  hae  ordered  her  to  kindle  the 
fire,  or  if  I  had  been  the  king  of  coorse  I  would 
hae  telt  her  instead  to  ring  the  bell  an'  hae  the 
cloth  laid  for  the  breakfast.  Ay,  that's  the  wy  to 
mak'  the  like  o'  Mary  respec'  ye." 

Pete  and  I  left  them  talking.  He  had  written 
a  letter  to  David  Alexander,  and  wanted  me  to 
"back  "it 


A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 


CHAPTER  X. 

A   MAGNUM    OPUS. 

Two  Bibles,  a  volume  of  sermons  by  the  learned 
Dr.  Isaac  Barrow,  a  few  numbers  of  the  Cheap 
Magazine,  that  had  strayed  from  Dunfermline, 
and  a  "  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  were  the  works  that 
lay  conspicuous  ben  in  the  room.  Hendry  had 
also  a  copy  of  Burns,  whom  he  always  quoted 
in  the  complete  poem,  and  a  collection  of  legends 
in  song  and  prose,  that  Leeby  kept  out  of  sight 
in  a  drawer. 

The  weight  of  my  box  of  books  was  a  subject 
Hendry  was  very  willing  to  shake  his  head  over  ; 
but  he  never  showed  any  desire  to  take  off  the 
lid.  Jess,  however,  was  more  curious ;  indeed, 
she  would  have  been  an  omnivorous  devourer  of 
books  had  it  not  been  for  her  conviction  that 
reading  was  idling.  Until  I  found  her  out,  she 
never  allowed  to  me  that  Leeby  brought  her  my 
books  one  at  a  time.  Some  of  them  were  novels, 
and  Jess  took  about  ten  minutes  to  each.  She 
confessed  that  what  she  read  was  only  the  last 
chapter,  owing  to  a  consuming  curiosity  to  know 
whether  "she  got  him." 


A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  79 

She  read  all  the  London  parts,  however,  of 
"The  Heart  of  Midlothian, "because  London  was 
where  Jamie  lived,  and  she  and  I  had  a  discussion 
about  it  which  ended  in  her  remembering  that 
Thrums  once  had  an  author  of  its  own. 

"  Bring  oot  the  book,"  she  said  to  Leeby  ;  "it 
was  put  awa  i'  the  bottom  drawer  ben  i'  the 
room  sax  year  syne,  an'  I  sepad  it's  there 
yet. " 

Leeby  came  but  with  a  faded  little  book,  the 
title  already  rubbed  from  its  shabby  brown  covers. 
I  opened  it,  and  then  all  at  once  I  saw  before  me 
again  the  man  who  wrote  and  printed  it  and  died. 
He  came  hobbling  up  the  brae,  so  bent  that  his 
body  was  almost  at  right  angles  to  his  legs,  and 
his  broken  silk  hat  was  carefully  brushed  as  in  the 
days  when  Janet,  his  sister,  lived.  There  he 
stood  at  the  top  of  the  brae,  panting. 

I  was  but  a  boy  when  Jimsy  Duthie  turned  the 
corner  of  the  brae  for  the  last  time,  with  a  score 
of  mourners  behind  him.  While  I  knew  him 
there  was  no  Janet  to  run  to  the  door  to  see  if  he 
was  coming.  So  occupied  was  Jimsy  with  the 
great  affair  of  his  life,  which  was  brewing  for 
thirty  years,  that  his  neighbors  saw  how  he 
missed  his  sister  better  than  he  realized  it  himself. 
Only  his  hat  was  no  longer  carefully  brushed,  and 
his  coat  hung  awry,  and  there  was  sometimes 
little  reason  why  he  should  go  home  to  dinner. 
It  is  for  the  sake  of  Janet  who  adored  him  that 


So  A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

we  should  remember  Jimsy  in  the  days  before  r.he 
died. 

Jimsy  was  a  poet,  and  for  the  space  of  thirty 
years  he  lived  in  a  great  epic  on  the  Millennium. 
This  is  the  book  presented  to  me  by  Jess,  that  lies 
so  quietly  on  my  topmost  shelf  now.  Open  it, 
however,  and  you  will  find  that  the  work  is  en- 
titled, "The  Millennium :  an  Epic  Poem,  in 
Twelve  Books  :  by  James  Duthie."  In  the  little 
hole  in  his  wall  where  Jimsy  kept  his  books  there 
was,  I  have  no  doubt — for  his  effects  were  rouped 
before  I  knew  him  except  by  name — a  well-read 
copy  of  "Paradise  Lost."  Some  people  would 
smile  perhaps,  if  they  read  the  two  epics  side  by 
side,  and  others  might  sigh,  for  there  is  a  great 
deal  in  "The  Millennium  "  that  Milton  could  take 
credit  for.  Jimsy  had  educated  himself,  after  the 
idea  of  writing  something  that  the  world  would 
not  willingly  let  die  came  to  him,  and  he  began 
his  book  before  his  education  was  complete.  So 
far  as  I  know,  he  never  wrote  a  line  that  had  not 
to  do  with  "The  Millennium."  He  was  ever  a 
man  sparing  of  his  plural  tenses,  and  "The 
Millennium"  says  "has"  for  "have";  a  vain 
word,  indeed,  which  Thrums  would  only  have 
permitted  as  a  poetical  license.  The  one  original 
character  in  the  poem  is  the  devil,  of  whom  Jimsy 
gives  a  picture  that  is  startling  and  graphic,  and 
received  the  approval  of  the  Auld  Licht  minister. 

By  trade  Jimsy  was  a  printer,  a  master-printer 


A    WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  8 1 

with  no  one  under  him,  and  he  printed  and  bound 
his  book,  ten  copies  in  all,  as  well  as  wrote  it. 
To  print  the  poem  took  him,  I  dare  say,  nearly  as 
long  as  to  write  it,  and  he  set  up  the  pages  as 
they  were  written,  one  by  one.  The  book  is  only 
printed  on  one  side  of  the  leaf,  and  each  page  was 
produced  separately  like  a  little  hand-bill.  Those 
who  may  pick  up  the  book — but  who  will  care  to 
do  so  ? — will  think  that  the  author  or  his  printer 
could  not  spell — but  they  would  not  do  Jimsy 
that  injustice  if  they  knew  the  circumstances  in 
which  it  was  produced.  He  had  but  a  small 
stock  of  type,  and  on  many  occasions  he  ran  out 
of  a  letter.  The  letter  e  tried  him  sorely.  Those 
who  knew  him  best  say  that  he  tried  to  think  of 
words  without  an  e  in  them,  but  when  he  was 
baffled  he  had  to  use  a  little  a  or  an  o  instead. 
He  could  print  correctly,  but  in  the  book  there 
are  a  good  many  capital  letters  in  the  middle  of 
words,  and  sometimes  there  is  a  note  of  interro- 
gation after  "alas"  or  "woe's  me,"  because  all 
the  notes  of  exclamation  had  been  used  up. 

Jimsy  never  cared  to  speak  about  his  great 
poem  even  to  his  closest  friends,  but  Janet  told 
how  he  read  it  out  to  her,  and  that  his  whole  body 
trembled  with  excitement  while  he  raised  his  eyes 
to  heaven  as  if  asking  for  inspiration  that  would 
enable  his  voice  to  do  justice  to  his  writing.  So 
grand  it  was,  said  Janet,  that  her  stocking  would 
slip  from  her  fingers  as  he  read — and  Janet's 
6 


82  A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

stockings,  that  she  was  always  knitting  when  not 
otherwise  engaged,  did  not  slip  from  her  hands 
readily.  After  her  death  he  was  heard  by  his 
neighbors  reciting  the  poem  to  himself,  generally 
with  his  door  locked.  He  is  said  to  have  de- 
claimed part  of  it  one  still  evening  from  the  top 
of  the  commonty  like  one  addressing  a  multitude 
and  the  idlers  who  had  crept  up  to  jeer  at  him  fell 
back  when  they  saw  his  face.  He  walked  through 
them,  they  told,  with  his  old  body  straight  once 
more,  and  a  queer  light  playing  on  his  face.  His 
lips  are  moving  as  I  see  him  turning  the  cornerof 
the  brae.  So  he  passed  from  youth  to  old  age, 
and  all  his  life  seemed  a  dream,  except  that  part 
of  it  in  which  he  was  writing,  or  printing,  or 
stitching,  or  binding  "  The  Millennium. "  At  last 
the  work  was  completed. 

"It  is  finished,"  he  printed  at  the  end  of  the  last 
book.  "The  task  of  thirty  years  is  over." 

It  is  indeed  over.  No  one  ever  read  "The 
Millennium."  I  am  not  going  to  sentimentalize 
over  my  copy,  for  how  much  of  it  have  I  read? 
But  neither  shall  I  say  that  it  was  written  to  no 
end. 

You  may  care  to  know  the  last  of  Jimsy, 
though  in  one  sense  he  was  blotted  out  when  the 
last  copy  was  bound.  He  had  saved  one  hun- 
dred pounds  by  that  time,  and  being  now  neither 
able  to  work  nor  to  live  alone,  his  friends  cast 
about  for  a  home  for  his  remaining  years.  He 


A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  83 

was  very  spent  and  feeble,  yet  he  had  the  fear 
that  he  might  be  still  alive  when  all  his  money 
was  gone.  After  that  was  the  workhouse.  He 
covered  sheets  of  paper  with  calculations  about 
how  long  the  hundred  pounds  would  last  if  he 
gave  away  for  board  and  lodgings  ten  shillings, 
nine  shillings,  seven  and  sixpence  a  week.  At 
last,  with  sore  misgivings,  he  went  to  live  with  a 
family  who  took  him  for  eight  shillings.  Less 
than  a  month  afterwards  he  died. 


84  A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE   GHOST    CRADLE. 

OUR  dinner  hour  was  1 2  o'clock,  and  Hendry, 
for  a  not  incomprehensible  reason,  called  this 
meal  his  brose.  Frequently,  however,  while  I 
was  there  to  share  the  expense,  broth  was  put  on 
the  table,  with  beef  to  follow  in  clean  plates, 
much  to  Hendry's  distress,  for  the  comfortable 
and  usual  practice  was  to  eat  the  beef  from  the 
broth-plates.  Jess,  however,  having  three  whole 
white  plates  and  two  cracked  ones,  insisted  on 
the  meals  being  taken  genteelly,  and  her  husband, 
with  a  look  at  me,  gave  way. 

"Half  a  pound  o'  boiling  beef,  an'  a  penny 
bone,"  was  Leeby's  almost  invariable  order  when 
she  dealt  with  the  flesher,  and  Jess  had  always 
neighbors  poorer  than  herself,  who  got  a  plateful 
of  the  broth.  She  never  had  anything  without 
remembering  some  old  body  who  would  be  the 
better  of  a  little  of  it. 

Among  those  who  must  have  missed  Jess  sadly 
after  she  was  gone  was  Johnny  Proctor,  a  half- 
witted man  who,  because  he  could  not  work,  re- 
mained straight  at  a  time  of  life  when  most 


A   WINDOW  IN"  THRUMS.  85 

iveavers,  male  and  female,  had  lost  some  inches 
of  their  stature.  For  as  far  back  as  my  memory 
goes,  Johnny  had  got  his  brose  three  times  a 
week  from  Jess,  his  custom  being  to  walk  in 
without  ceremony,  and,  drawing  a  stool  to  the 
table,  tell  Leeby  that  he  was  now  ready.  One 
day,  however,  when  I  was  in  the  garden  putting 
some  rings  on  a  fishing-wand,  Johnny  pushed  by 
me,  with  no  sign  of  recognition  on  his  face.  I 
addressed  him,  and,  after  pausing  undecidedly, 
he  ignored  me.  When  he  came  to  the  door,  in- 
stead of  flinging  it  open  and  walking  in,  he 
knocked  primly,  which  surprised  me  so  much 
that  I  followed  him. 

"Is  this  whaur  Mistress  McQumpha  lives?"  he 
asked,  when  Leeby,  with  a  face  ready  to  receive 
the  minister  himself,  came  at  length  .to  the  door. 

I  knew  that  the  gentility  of  the  knock  had  taken 
both  her  and  her  mother  aback. 

"Hoots,  Johnny,"  said  Leeby,  "what  haver's 
this?  Come  awa  in." 

Johnny  seemed  annoyed- 

"Is  this  whaur  Mistress  McQumpha  lives ? "  he 
repeated. 

"Say  'at  it  is,"  cried  Jess,  who  was  quicker  in 
the  uptake  than  her  daughter. 

"Of  course  this  is  whaur  Mistress  McQumpha 
lives,"  Leeby  then  said,  "as  weel  ye  ken,  for  ye 
had  yer  dinner  here  no  twa  hours  syne." 

"Then,"  said  Johnny,  " Mistress  Tully's  com- 


86  A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

pliments  to  her,  and  would  she  kindly  lend  the 
christenin'-rbbe  an'  also  the  tea-tray,  if  the  same 
be  na  needed  ? " 

Having  delivered  his  message  as  instructed, 
Johnny  consented  to  sit  down  until  the  famous 
christening-robe  and  the  tray  were  ready,  but  he 
would  not  talk,  for  that  was  not  in  the  bond. 
Jess'  sweet  face  beamed  over  the  compliment 
Mrs.  Tully,  known  on  ordinary  occasions  as  Jean 
McTaggart,  had  paid  her,  and,  after  Johnny  had 
departed  laden,  she  told  me  how  the  tray,  which 
had  a  great  bump  in  the  middle,  came  into  her 
possession. 

"  Ye've  often  heard  me  speak  aboot  the  time 
when  I  was  a  lassie  workin'  at  the  farm  o'  the 
Bog?  Ay,  that  was  afore  me  an'  Hendry  kent 
ane  anither,  an'  I  was  as  fleet  on  my  feet  in  thae 
days  as  Leeby  is  noo.  It  was  Sam'l  Fletcher  'at 
was  the  farmer,  but  he  maun  hae  been  gone  afore 
you  was  mair  than  born.  Mebbe,  though,  ye  ken 
'at  he  was  a  terrible  invalid,  an'  for  the  hinmost 
years  o'  his  life  he  sat  in  a  muckle  chair  nicht  an' 
day.  Ay,  when  I  took  his  dinner  to  'im,  on  'at 
very  tray  at  Johnny  cam  for,  I  little  thocht  'at  by- 
an'-bye  I  would  be  sae  keepit  in  a  chair  mysel'. 

"But  the  thinkin'  o'  Sam'l  Fletcher's  case  is  ane 
o'  the  things  'at  maks  me  awfu'  thankfu'  for  the 
lenient  wy  the  Lord  has  aye  dealt  wi'  me  ;  for 
Sam'l  couldna  move  oot  o'  the  chair,  aye  sleepin' 
in't  at  nicht,  an'  I  can  come  an'  gang  between 


A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  87 

mine  an'  my  bed.  Mebbe,  ye  think  I'm  no  much 
better  off  than  Sam'l,  but  that's  a  terrible  mistak. 
What  a  glory  it  would  hae  been  to  him  if  he  could 
hae  gone  frae  one  end  o'  the  kitchen  to  the  ither  I 
Ay,  I'm  sure  o'  that. 

"Sam'l  was  rale  weel  liked,  for  he  was  saft- 
spoken  to  everybody,  an'  fond  o'  ha'en  a  gossip 
wi'  ony  ane  'at  was  aboot  the  farm.  We  didna 
care  sae  muckle  for  the  wife,  Eppie  Lownie,  for 
she  managed  the  farm,  an'  she  was  fell  hard  an' 
terrible  reserved  we  thocht,  no  even  likin'  ony 
body  to  get  friendly  wi'  the  mester,  as  we  called 
Sam'l.  Ay,  we  made  a  richt  mistak." 

As  I  had  heard  frequently  of  this  queer,  mourn- 
ful mistake  made  by  those  who  considered  Sam'l 
unfortunate  in  his  wife,  I  turned  Jess  on  the  main 
line  of  her  story. 

"  It  was  the  ghost  cradle,  as  they  named  it,  'at 
I  meant  to  tell  ye  aboot.  The  Bog  was  a  bigger 
farm  in  thae  days  than  noo,  but  I  daursay  it  has 
the  new  steadin'  yet.  Ay,  it  winna  be  new  noo, 
but  at  the  time  there  was  sic  a  commotion  aboot 
the  ghost  cradle,  they  were  juist  puttin'  the  new 
steadin'  up.  There  was  sax  or  mair  masons  at  it, 
wi'  the  lads  on  the  farm  helpin',  an'  as  they  were 
all  sleepin'  at  the  farm,  there  was  great  stir  aboot 
the  place.  I  couldna  tell  ye  hoo  the  story  aboot 
the  farm's  bein'  haunted  rose,  to  begin  wi',  but  I 
mind  fine  hoo  fleid  I  was ;  ay,  an'  no  only  me, 
but  every  man-body  an'  woman-body  on  the 


88  A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

farm.  It  was  aye  late  'at  the  soond  began,  an' 
we  never  saw  naething — we  juist  heard  it  The 
masons  said  they  wouldna  hae  been  sae  fleid  if 
they  could  hae  seen't,  but  it  never  was  seen.  It 
had  the  soond  o'  a  cradle  rockin',  an'  when  we 
lay  in  our  beds  hearkenin',  it  grew  louder  an' 
louder  till  it  wasna  to  be  borne,  an'  the  women- 
folk fair  skirled  wi'  fear.  The  mester  was  intimate 
wi'  a'  the  stories  aboot  ghosts  an'  water-kelpies 
an'  sic  like,  an'  we  couldna  help  listenin'  to  them. 
But  he  aye  said  'at  ghosts  'at  was  juist  heard  an' 
no  seen  was  the  maist  fearsome  an'  wicked.  For 
all  there  was  sic  fear  ower  the  hale  farm-toon  'at 
naebody  would  gang  ower  the  door  alane  after 
the  gloamin'  cam,  the  mester  said  he  wasna  fleid 
to  sleep  i'  the  kitchen  by  'imsel'.  We  thocht  it 
richt  brave  o'  'im,  for  ye  see  he  was  as  helpless  as 
a  bairn. 

"Richt  queer  stories  rose  aboot  the  cradle,  an' 
travelled  to  the  ither  farms.  The  wife  didna  like 
them  ava,  for  it  was  said  'at  there  maun  hae  been 
some  awful  murder  o'  an  infant  on  the  farm,  or 
we  wouldna  be  haunted  by  a  cradle.  Syne  folk 
began  to  mind  'at  there  had  been  nae  bairns  born 
on  the  farm  as  far  back  as  onybody  kent,  an'  it 
was  said  'at  some  lang  syne  crime  had  made  the 
Bog  cursed. 

"Dinna  think 'at  we  juist  lay  in  our  beds  or 
sat  round  the  fire  shakin'  wi'  fear.  Everything 
'at  could  be  dune  was  dune.  In  the  daytime, 


A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  89 

when  naething  was  heard,  the  masons  explored  a' 
place  i'  the  farm,  in  the  hope  o'  findin'  oot  'at  the 
sound  was  caused  by  sic  a  thing  as  the  wind 
playin'  on  the  wood  in  the  garret.  Even  at 
nichts,  when  they  couldna  sleep  wi'  the  soond, 
I've  kent  them  rise  in  a  body  and  gang  all  ower 
the  house  wi'  lichts.  I've  seen  them  climbin'  on 
the  new  steadin',  crawlin'  alang  the  rafters  haudin' 
their  cruizey  lamps  afore  them,  an'  us  women- 
bodies  shiverin'  wi'  fear  at  the  door.  It  was  on 
ane  o'  thae  nichts  'at  a  mason  fell  off  the  rafters 
an'  broke  his  leg.  Weel,  sic  a  state  was  the  me?» 
in  to  find  oot  what  it  was  'at  was  terrifyin'  them 
sac  muckle,  'at  the  rest  o'  them  climbed  up  at 
aince  to  the  place  he'd  fallen  frae,  thinkin'  there 
was  something  there  'at  had  fleid  'im.  Buf. 
though  they  crawled  back  an'  forrit  there  was 
naething  ava. 

"  The  rockin'  was  louder,  we  thocht,  after  that 
nicht,  an'  syne  the  man  said  it  would  go  on  till 
somebody  was  killed.  That  idea  took  a  richt 
haud  o'  them,  an'  twa  ran  awa  back  to  Tillie- 
drum,  whaur  they  had  come  frae.  They  gaed 
thegither  i'  the  middle  o'  the  nicht,  an'  it  was  thocht 
next  mornin'  'at  the  ghost  had  spirited  them  awa. 

"Ye  couldna  conceive  hoo  low-spirited  we  all 
were  after  the  masons  had  gien  up  hope  o'  findin' 
a  nat'ral  cause  for  the  soond.  At  ord'nary  times 
there's  no  ony  mair  lichtsome  place  than  a  farm 
after  the  men  hae  come  in  to  their  supper,  but  at 


90  A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

the  Bog  we  sat  dour  an'  sullen  ;  an'  there  wasna 
a  mason  or  a  farm-servant  'at  would  gang  by 
'imsel'  as  far  as  the  end  o'  the  hoose  whaur  the 
peats  was  keepit.  The  mistress  maun  hae  saved 
some  siller  that  spring  through  the  Egyptians 
(gypsies)  keepin'  awa,  for  the  farm  had  got  sic  an 
ill  name  'at  nae  tinkler  would  come  near't  at 
nicht.  The  tailorman  an'  his  laddie,  'at  should 
hae  bidden  wi'  us  to  sew  things  for  the  men, 
walkit  off  fair  skeered  one  morn  in',  an'  settled 
doon  at  the  farm  o'  Craigiebuckle  fower  mile  awa, 
whaur  our  lads  had  to  gae  to  them.  Ay,  I  mind 
the  tailor's  sendin'  the  laddie  for  the  money  owin' 
him  ;  he  hadna  the  speerit  to  venture  again  with- 
in soond  o'  the  cradle  'imsel'.  The  men  on  the 
farm,  though,  couldna  blame  'im  for  that.  They 
were  just  as  flichtered  themsels,  an'  mony  a  time 
I  saw  them  hittin'  the  dogs  for  whinin'  at  the 
soond.  The  wy  the  dogs  took  on  was  fearsome 
in  itsel',  for  they  seemed  to  ken,  aye  when  nicht 
cam  on/  at  therockin'  would  sune  begin,  an'  if  they 
werena  chained  they  cam'  runnin'  to  the  hoose.  I 
hae  heard  the  hale  glen  fu,  as  ye  micht  say,  wi' 
the  whinin'  o'  dogs,  for  the  dogs  on  the  other 
farms  took  up  the  cry,  an'  in  a  glen  ye  can  hear 
soonds  terrible  far  awa'  at  nicht. 

"As  lang  as  we  sat  i'  the  kitchen,  listenin'  to 
what  the  mester  had  to  say  aboot  the  ghosts  in 
his  young  days,  the  cradle  would  be  still,  but  we 
were  nae  suner  awa'  speeritless  to  our  beds  than 


A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  91 

it  began,  an'  sometimes  it  lasted  till  mornin'. 
We  lookit  upon  the  mester  almost  vvi'  awe,  sittin' 
there  sae  helpless  in  his  chair,  an'  no  field  to  be 
left  alane.  He  had  lang  white  hair,  an'  a  saft 
bonny  face  'at  would  hae  made  'im  respeckit  by 
onybody,  an'  aye  when  we  speired  if  he  wasna 
fleid  to  be  left  alane,  he  said,  '  Them  'at  has  a 
clear  conscience  has  naething  to  fear  frae  ghosts.' 

"There  was  some  'at  said  the  curse  would 
never  leave  the  farm  till  the  house  was  razed  to 
the  ground,  an'  it's  the  truth  I'm  tellin'  ye  when  I 
say  there  was  talk  among  the  men  aboot  settin't 
on  fire.  The  mester  was  richt  stern  when  he 
heard  o'  that,  quotin'  frae  Scripture  in  a  solemn 
wy  'at  abashed  the  masons,  but  he  said  'at  in  his 
opeenion  there  was  a  bairn  buried  on  the  farm, 
an'  till  it  was  found  the  cradle  would  go  on  rockin'. 
After  that  the  masons  dug  in  a  lot  o'  places  lookin' 
for  the  body,  an'  they  found  some  queer  things, 
too,  but  never  nae  sign  o'  a  murdered  litlin'.  Ay, 
I  dinna  ken  what  would  hae  happened  if  the 
commotion  had  gaen  on  muckle  langer.  One 
thing  I'm  sure  o'  is  'at  the  mistress  would  hae  gaen 
daft  she  took  it  a'  sae  terrible  to  heart. 

"I  lauch  at  it  noo,  but  I  tell  ye  I  used  to  tak' 
my  heart  to  my  bed  in  my  mouth.  If  ye  hinna 
heard  the  story,  I  dinna  think  ye'll  be  able  to 
guess  what  the  ghost  cradle  was." 

I  said  I  had  been  trying  to  think  what  the  tray 
had  to  do  with  it 


9«  A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

"It  had  everything  to  do  wi't,"said  Jess  ;  "an* 
if  the  masons  had  kent  hoo  that  cradle  was  rockit, 
I  think  they  would  hae  killed  the  mester.  It  was 
Eppie  'at  found  oot,  an'  she  telt  naebody  but  me, 
though  mony  a  ane  kens  noo.  I  see  ye  canna 
mak  it  oot  yet,  so  I'll  tell  ye  what  the  cradle  was. 
The  tray  was  keepit  against  the  kitchen  wall  near 
the  mester,  an'  he  played  on't  wi  his  foot.  He 
made  it  gang  bump,  bump,  an  the  soond  wasjuist 
like  a  cradle  rockin'.  Ye  could  hardly  believe  sic 
a  thing  would  hae  made  that  din,  but  it  did,  an' 
ye  see  we  lay  in  our  beds  hearkenin'  for't.  Ay, 
when  Eppie  telt  me,  I  could  scarce  believe  'at 
that  guid  devout-lookin'  man  could  hae  been  sae 
wicked.  Ye  see,  when  he  found  hoo  terrified  we 
a'  were,  he  keepit  it  up.  The  wy  Eppie  found 
out  i'  the  tail  o'  the  day  was  by  wonderin'  at  'im 
sleepin'  sae  muckle  in  the  daytime.  He  did  that 
so  as  to  be  fresh  for  his  sport  at  nicht  What  a 
fine  releegious  man  we  thoucht'im,  too  ! 

"  Eppie  couldna  bear  the  very  sicht  o'  the  tray 
after  that,  an'  she  telt  me  to  break  it  up ;  but  I 
keepit  it,  ye  see.  The  lump  i'  the  middle's  the 
mark,  as  ye  may  say,  o'  the  auld  man's  foot." 


A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  93 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE   TRAGEDY   OF   A   WIFE. 

WERE  Jess  still  alive  to  tell  the  life-story  of  Sam'l 
Fletcher  and  his  wife,  you  could  not  hear  it  and 
sit  still.  The  ghost  cradle  is  but  a  page  from  the 
black  history  of  a  woman  who  married,  to  be 
blotted  out  from  that  hour.  One  case  of  the  kind 
I  myself  have  known,  of  a  woman  so  good  mated 
to  a  man  so  selfish  that  I  cannot  think  of  her  even 
now  with  a  steady  mouth.  Hers  was  the  tragedy 
of  living  on,  more  mournful  than  the  tragedy 
that  kills.  In  Thrums  the  weavers  spoke  of  ' '  lous- 
ing "  from  their  looms,  removing  the  chains,  and 
there  is  something  woeful  in  that.  But  pity  poor 
Nanny  Coutts,  who  took  her  chains  to  bed  with 
her. 

Nanny  was  buried  a  month  or  more  before  I 
came  to  the  house  on  the  brae,  and  even  in  Thrums 
the  dead  are  seldom  remembered  for  so  long 
a  time  as  that.  But  it  was  only  after  Sanders  was 
left  alone  that  we  learned  what  a  woman  she  had 
been,  and  how  basely  we  had  wronged  her.  She 
was  an  angel,  Sanders  went  about  whining  when 
he  had  no  longer  a  woman  to  ill-treat.  He  had 


94  A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

this  sentimental  way  with  him,  but  it  lost  its 
effect  after  we  knew  the  man. 

"A  deevil  couldna  hae  deserved  waur  treat- 
ment," Tammas  Haggartsaidto  him  ;  "gangoot 
o'  my  sicht,  man  !  " 

"I'll  blame  mysel'  till  I  die,"  Jess  said,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes,  "for  no  understandin'  puir 
Nanny  better." 

So  Nanny  got  sympathy  at  last,  but  not  until 
her  forgiving  soul  had  left  her  tortured  body. 
There  was  many  a  kindly  heart  in  Thrums  that 
would  have  gone  out  to  her  in  her  lifetime,  but 
we  could  not  have  loved  her  without  upbraiding 
him,  and  she  would  not  buy  sympathy  at  the 
price.  What  a  little  story  it  is,  and  how  few 
words  are  required  to  tell  it !  He  was  a  bad 
husband  to  her,  and  she  kept  it  secret.  That  is 
Nanny's  life  summed  up.  It  is  all  that  was  left 
behind  when  her  coffin  went  down  the  brae. 
Did  she  love  him  to  the  end,  or  was  she  only 
doing  what  she  thought  her  duty  ?  It  is  not  for 
me  even  to  guess.  A  good  woman  who  suffers 
is  altogether  beyond  man's  reckoning.  To  such 
heights  of  self-sacrifice  we  cannot  rise.  It  crushes 
us  ;  it  ought  to  crush  us  on  to  our  knees.  For  us 
who  saw  Nanny,  infirm,  shrunken,  and  so  weary, 
yet  a  type  of  the  noblest  womanhood,  suffering 
for  years,  and  misunderstood  her  to  the  end,  what 
expiation  can  there  be?  I  do  not  want  to  storm 
at  the  man  who  made  her  life  so  burdensome. 


A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  95 

Too  many  years  have  passed  for  that,  nor  would 
Nanny  take  it  kindly  if  I  called  her  man  names. 

Sanders  worked  little  after  his  marriage.  He 
had  a  sore  back,  he  said,  which  became  a  torture 
if  he  leant  forward  at  his  loom.  What  truth  there 
was  in  this  I  cannot  say,  but  not  every  weaver  in 
Thrums  could  "  louse  "  when  his  back  grew  sore. 
Nanny  went  to  the  loom  in  his  place,  filling  as 
well  as  weaving,  and  he  walked  about,  dressed 
better  than  the  common,  and  with  cheerful  words 
for  those  who  had  time  to  listen.  Nanny  got  no 
approval  even  for  doing  his  work  as  well  as  her 
own,  for  they  were  understood  to  have  money, 
and  Sanders  let  us  think  her  merely  greedy.  We 
drifted  into  his  opinions. 

Had  Jess  been  one  of  those  who  could  go 
about,  she  would,  I  think,  have  read  Nanny  better 
than  the  rest  of  us,  for  her  intellect  was  bright, 
and  always  led  her  straight  to  her  neighbors' 
hearts.  But  Nanny  visited  no  one,  and  so  Jess 
only  knew  her  by  hearsay.  Nanny's  standoffish- 
ness,  as  it  was  called,  was  not  a  popular  virtue, 
and  she  was  blamed  still  more  for  trying  to  keep 
her  husband  out  of  other  people's  houses.  He 
was  so  frank  and  full  of  gossip,  and  she  was  so 
reserved.  He  would  go  everywhere,  and  she 
nowhere.  He  had  been  known  to  ask  neighbors 
to  tea,  and  she  had  shown  that  she  wanted  them 
away,  or  even  begged  them  not  to  come.  We 
were  not  accustomed  to  go  behind  the  face  of  a 


96  A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

thing,  and  so  we  set  down  Nanny's  inhospitality 
to  churlishness  or  greed.  Only  after  her  death, 
when  other  women  had  to  attend  him,  did  we  get 
to  know  what  a  tyrant  Sanders  was  at  his  own 
hearth.  The  ambition  of  Nanny's  life  was  that 
we  should  never  know  it,  that  we  should  continue 
extolling  him,  and  say  what  we  chose  about  her- 
self. She  knew  that  if  we  went  much  about  the 
house  and  saw  how  he  treated  her,  Sanders  would 
cease  to  be  a  respected  man  in  Thrums. 

So  neat  in  his  dress  was  Sanders,  that  he  was 
seldom  seen  abroad  in  corduroys.  His  blue 
bonnet  for  everyday  wear  was  such  as  even  well- 
to-do  farmers  only  wore  at  fair-time,  and  it  was 
said  that  he  had  a  handkerchief  for  every  day  in 
the  week.  Jess  often  held  him  up  to  Hendry  as  a 
model  of  courtesy  and  polite  manners. 

"  Him  an'  Nanny's  no  weel  matched, "she used 
to  say,  "  for  he  has  grand  ideas,  an'  she's  o'  the 
commonest.  It  maun  be  a  richt  trial  to  a  man 
wi'  his  fine  tastes  to  hae  a  wife  'at's  wrapper's 
never  even  on,  an'  wha  doesna  wash  her  mutch 
aince  in  a  month." 

It  is  true  that  Nanny  was  a  slattern,  but  only 
because  she  married  into  slavery.  She  was  kept 
so  busy  washing  and  ironing  for  Sanders  that  she 
ceased  to  care  how  she  looked  herself.  What  did 
it  matter  whether  her  mutch  was  clean  ?  Weaving 
and  washing  and  cooking,  doing  the  work  of  a 
breadwinner  as  well  as  of  a  housewife,  hers  was 


A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  97 

soon  a  body  prematurely  old,  on  which  no  wrapper 
would  sit  becomingly.  Before  her  face,  Sanders 
would  hint  that  her  slovenly  ways  and  dress  tried 
him  sorely,  and  in  company  at  least  she  only 
bowed  her  head.  We  were  given  to  respecting 
those  who  worked  hard,  but  Nanny,  we  thought, 
was  a  woman  of  means,  and  Sanders  let  us  call 
her  a  miser.  He,  was  always  anxious,  he  said, 
to  be  generous,  but  Nanny  would  not  let  him 
assist  a  starving  child.  They  had  really  not  a 
penny  beyond  what  Nanny  earned  at  the  loom, 
and  now  we  know  how  Sanders  shook  her  if  she 
did  not  earn  enough.  His  vanity  was  responsible 
for  the  story  about  her  wealth,  and  she  would  not 
have  us  think  him  vain. 

Because  she  did  so  much,  we  said  that  she  was 
as  strong  as  a  cart-horse.  The  doctor  who 
attended  her  during  the  last  week  of  her  life  dis- 
covered that  she  had  never  been  well.  Yet  we 
had  often  wondered  at  her  letting  Sanders  pit  his 
own  potatoes  when  he  was  so  unable. 

"  Them  'at's  strong,  ye  see,  "Sanders  explained, 
"  doesna  ken  what  illness  is,  an'  so  it's  nat'ral 
they  shouldna  sympathize  wi'  onweel  fowk.  Ay, 
I'm  rale  thankfu'  'at  Nanny  keeps  her  health.  I 
often  envy  her." 

These  were  considered  creditable  sentiments, 

and  so  they  might  have  been  had  Nanny  uttered 

them.     Thus  easily  Sanders  built  up  a  reputation 

for  never  complaining.     I  know  now  that  he  was 

7 


98  A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

a  hard  and  cruel  man  who  should  have  married 
a  shrew  ;  but  while  Nanny  lived  I  thought  he  had 
a  beautiful  nature.  Many  a  time  1  have  spoken 
with  him  at  Hendry's  gate,  and  felt  the  better  of 
his  heartiness. 

"I  mauna  complain,"  he  always  said;  "na, 
we  maunjuist  fecht  awa." 

Little,  indeed,  had  he  to  complain  of,  and  little 
did  he  fight  away. 

Sanders  went  twice  to  church  every  Sabbath, 
and  thrice  when  he  got  the  chance.  There  was 
no  man  who  joined  so  lustily  in  singing  or  looked 
straighter  at  the  minister  during  the  prayer.  I 
have  heard  the  minister  say  that  Sanders'  con- 
stant attendance  was  an  encouragement  and  a 
help  to  him.  Nanny  had  been  a  great  church- 
goer when  she  was  a  maiden,  but  after  her  mar- 
riage she  only  went  in  the  afternoons,  and  a  time 
came  when  she  ceased  altogether  to  attend.  The 
minister  admonished  her  many  times,  telling  her, 
among  other  things,  that  her  irreligious  ways 
were  a  distress  to  her  husband.  She  never  replied 
that  she  could  not  go  to  church  in  the  forenoon, 
because  Sanders  insisted  on  a  hot  meal  being 
waiting  him  when  the  services  ended.  But  it  was 
true  that  Sanders,  for  appearances'  sake,  would 
have  had  her  go  to  church  in  the  afternoon.  It 
is  now  believed  that  on  this  point  alone  did  she 
refuse  to  do  as  she  was  bidden.  Nanny  was  very 
far  from  perfect,  and  the  reason  she  forsook  the 


A   WINDOW  IX  THRUMS. 


99 


kirk  utterly  was  because  she  had  no  Sabbath 
clothes. 

She  died  as  she  had  lived,  saying  not  a  word 
when  the  minister,  thinking  it  his  duty,  drew  a 
cruel  comparison  between  her  life  and  her  hus- 
band's. 

"I  got  my  first  glimpse  into  the  real  state  of 
affairs  in  that  house,"  the  doctor  told  me  one  night 
on  the  brae,  the  day  before  she  died.  "You're 
sure  there's  no  hope  for  me  ? "  she  asked  wistfully, 
and  when  I  had  to  tell  the  truth  she  sank  back  on 
the  pillow  with  a  look  of  joy.'* 

Nanny  died  with  a  lie  on  her  lips.  "Ay,"  she 
said,  "  Sanders  has  been  a  guid  man  to  me." 


loo  A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 


CHAPTER  XIIL 

MAKING   THE    BEST   OF   IT. 

HENDRY  had  a  way  of  resuming  a  conversation 
where  he  had  left  off  the  night  before.  He  would 
revolve  a  topic  in  his  mind,  too,  and  then  begin 
aloud,  "He's  a  queer  ane,"  or,  "Say  ye  so?" 
which  was  at  times  perplexing.  With  the  whole 
day  before  them,  none  of  the  family  was  inclined 
to  waste  strength  in  talk  ;  but  one  morning  when 
he  was  blowing  the  steam  off  his  porridge, 
Hendry  said,  suddenly  : 

"  He's  hame  again." 

The  women-folk  gave  him  time  to  say  to  whom 
he  was  referring,  which  he  occasionally  did  as  an 
after-thought.  But  he  began  to  sup  his  porridge, 
making  eyes  as  it  went  steaming  down  his  throat 

"I  dinna  ken  wha  ye  mean,"  Jess  said,  while 
Leeby,  who  was  on  her  knees  rubbing  the  hearth- 
stone a  bright  blue,  paused  to  catch  her  father's 
answer. 

"  Jeames  Geogehan,"  replied  Hendry,  with  the 
horn  spoon  in  his  mouth. 

Leeby  turned  to  Jess  for  enlightenment 


A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  IO1 

"Geogehan,"  repeated  Jess;  "what!  no  little 
Jeames  'at  ran  awa  ?  " 

"Ay,  ay,  but  he's  a  muckle  stoot  man  1100,  an' 
gey  gray. " 

"Ou,  I  dinna  wonder  at  that.  It's  aguidforty 
year  since  he  ran  off." 

"  I  waurant  ye  couldna  say  exact  hoo  langsyne 
it  is  ?  " 

Hendry  asked  this  question  because  Jess  was 
notorious  for  her  memory,  and  he  gloried  in  put- 
ting it  to  the  test. 

' '  Let's  see, "  she  said. 

"But  wha  is  he?"  asked  Leeby.  "I  never 
kent  nae  Geogehans  in  Thrums." 

"  Weel,  it's  forty-one  years  syne  come  Michael- 
mas," said  Jess. 

"  Hoo  do  ye  ken?" 

"I  ken  fine.  Ye  mind  his  father  had  been 
lickin'  'im,  an'  he  ran  awa  in  a  passion,  cryin'  oot 
'at  he  Would  never  come  back  ?  Ay,  then,  he  had 
a  pair  o'  boots  on  at  the  time,  an'  his  father  ran 
after  'im  an'  took  them  aff  'im.  The  boots  was 
the  last  'at  Davie  Mearns  made,  an'  it's  fully  ane- 
an'-forty  years  since  Davie  fell  ower  the  quarry 
on  the  day  o'  the  hill-market.  That  settles't. 
Ay,  an'  Jeames'll  be  turned  fifty  noo,  for  he  was 
comin'  on  for  ten  year  auld  at  that  time.  Ay,  ay, 
an'  he's  come  back  !  What  a  state  Eppie'll  be 
in!" 

"Tell's  wha  he  is,  mother." 


loa  A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

"Od,  he's  Eppie  Outline's  son.  Her  man  was 
William  Geogehan,  but  he  died  afore  you  was 
born,  an'  as  Jeames  was  their  only  bairn,  the 
name  o'  Geogehan's  been  a  kind  o'  lost  sicht  o', 
Hae  ye  seen  him,  Hendry  ?  Is't  true  'at  he  made 
a  fortune  in  thae  far-awa  countries  ?  Eppie'll  be 
blavvin'  aboot  him  richt?" 

"There's  nae  doot  aboot  the  siller,"  said 
Hendry,  "  for  he  drove  in  a  carriage  frae  Tillie- 
drum,  an'  they  say  he  needs  a  closet  to  hang  his 
claes  in,  there's  sic  a  heap  o'  them.  Ay,  but 
that's  no  a'  he's  brocht,  na,  far  frae  a'." 

"  Dinna  gang  awa  till  ye've  telt's  a'  aboot  'im. 
What  mair  has  he  brocht  ?  " 

"He's  brocht  a  wife,"  said  Hendry,  twisting 
his  face  curiously. 

"There's  naething  surprisin'  in  that." 

"Ay,  but  there  is,  though.  Ye  see,  Eppie  had 
a  letter  frae  'im  no  mony  weeks  syne,  sayin'  'at 
he  wasna  deid,  an'  he  was  comin'  hame  wi'  a 
fortune.  He  said,  too,  'at  he  was  a  single  man, 
«nf  she's  been  boastin'  aboot  that,  so  ye  may 
think  'at  she  got  a  surprise  when  he  hands  a. 
wuman  oot  o'  the  carriage." 

"An'  no  a  pleasant  ane,"  said  Jess.  "  Had  he 
been  leein'?" 

"Na,  he  was  single  when  he  wrote,  an'  single 
when  he  got  the  length  o'  Tilliedrum.  Ye  see,  he 
fell  in  wi'  the  lassie  there,  an'  juist  gaed  clean  aff 
his  heid  aboot  her.  After  managin'  to  withstand 


A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  103 

the  women  o'  foreign  lands  for  a'  thae  years,  he 
gaed  fair  skeer  aboot  this  stocky  at  Tilliedrum.  ' 
She's  juist  seventeen  year  auld,  an'  the  auld  fule 
sits  wi'  his  airm  round  her  in  Eppie's  hoose,  though 
they've  been  mairit  this  fortnicht." 

"The  doited  fule,"  said  Jess. 

Jeames  Geogehan  and  his  bride  became  the 
talk  of  Thrums,  and  Jess  saw  them  from  her 
window  several  times.  The  first  time  she  had 
only  eyes  for  the  jacket  with  fur  round  it  worn 
by  Mrs.  Geogehan,  but  subsequently  she  took  in 
Jeames. 

"He's  tryin'  to  carry't  aff  wi'  his  heid  in  the 
air,"  she  said,  "but  I  can  see  he's  fell  shame- 
faced, an'  nae  wonder.  Ay,  I  sepad  he's  mair 
ashamed  o't  in  his  heart  than  she  is.  It's  an  aw- 
ful like  thing  o'  a  lassie  to  marry  an  auld  man. 
She  had  dune't  for  the  siller.  Ay,  there's  pounds' 
worth  o'  fur  aboot  that  jacket." 

"They  say  she  had  siller  hersel',"  said  Tibbie 
Birse. 

"  Dinna  tell  me,"  said  Jess.  "I  ken  by  her 
wy  o'  carryin'  hersel'  'at  she  never  had  a  jacket 
like  that  afore." 

Eppie  was  not  the  only  person  in  Thrums 
whom  this  marriage  enraged.  Stories  had  long 
been  alive  of  Jeames'  fortune,  which  his  cousins' 
children  were  some  day  to  divide  among  them- 
selves, and  as  a  consequence  these  young  men 
and  women  looked  on  Mrs.  Geogehan  as  a  thie£ 


164  ^  WIXDOW  Itt  THRUMS. 

"Dinna  bring  the  wife  to  our  hoose,  Jeames," 
one  of  them  told  him,  "for  we  would  be  fair 
ashamed  to  hae  her.  We  used  to  hae  a  respect 
for  yer  name,  so  we  couldna  look  her  i'  the  face." 

"She's  mair  like  yer  dochter  than  yer  wife," 
said  another. 

"Na,"  said  a  third,  "  naebody  could  mistak  her 
for  yer  dochter.  She's  ower  young-like  for  that." 

"  Wi'  the  siller  you'll  leave  her,  Jeames,"  Tam- 
mas  Haggart  told  him,  "she'll  get  a  younger 
man  for  her  second  venture." 

All  this  was  very  trying  to  the  newly-married 
man,  who  was  thirsting  for  sympathy.  Hendry 
was  the  person  whom  he  took  into  his  confidence. 

"  It  may  hae  been  foolish  at  my  time  o'  life," 
Hendry  reported  him  to  have  said,  "  but  I  couldna 
help  it.  If  they  juist  kent  her  better  they  couldna 
but  see  'at  she's  a  terrible  takkin'  crittur." 

Jeames  was  generous  ;  indeed,  he  had  come 
home  with  the  intention  of  scattering  largess.  A 
beggar  met  him  one  day  on  the  brae,  and  got  a 
shilling  from  him.  She  was  waving  her  arms 
triumphantly  as  she  passed  Hendry's  house,  and 
Leeby  got  the  story  from  her. 

"Eh,  he's  a  fine  man  that,  an'  a  saft  ane,"  the 
woman  said.  "I  juist  speired  at  'im  hoo  his 
bonny  wife  was,  an'  he  oot  wi'  a  shillin' !  " 

Leeby  did  not  keep  this  news  to  herself,  and 
soon  it  was  through  the  town.  Jeames'  face  be- 
gan to  brighten. 


A  WltiDOW  Iti  THRUMS.  lo$ 

*'  They're  comin'  round  to  a  mair  sensible  wy 
o'  lookin'  at  things,"  he  told  Hendry.  "I  was 
walkin'  wi'  the  wife  i'  the  buryin'-ground  yester- 
day, an'  we  met  Kitty  McQueen.  She  was  ane 
o'  the  warst  agin  me  at  first,  but  she  telt  me  i'  the 
buryin'-ground  'at  when  a  man  marrit  he  should 
please  'imsel'.  Oh,  they're  comin'  round." 

What  Kitty  told  Jess  was  : 

"I  minded  o'  the  tinkler  wuman  'at  he  gae  a 
shillin'  to,  so  I  thocht  I  would  butter  up  at  the 
auld  fule  too.  Weel,  I  assure  ye,  I  had  nae 
suner  said  'at  he  was  rale  wise  to  marry  wha  he 
likit  than  he  slips  a  pound  note  into  my  hand. 
Ou,  Jess,  we've  ta'en  the  wrang  wy  wi'  Jeames. 
I've  telt  a'  my  bairns  'at  if  they  meet  him  they're 
to  praise  the  wife  terrible,  an'  I'm  far  mista'en  if 
that  doesna  mean  five  shillin's  to  ilka  ane  o' 
them." 

Jean  Whamond  got  a  pound  note  for  saying 
that  Jeames'  wife  had  an  uncommon  pretty  voice, 
and  Davit  Lunan  had  ten  shillings  for  a  judicious 
word  about  her  attractive  manners.  Tibbie  Birse 
invited  the  newly-married  couple  to  tea  (one 
pound). 

"They're  takkin'  to  her,  they're  takkin'to  her,' 
Jeames  said,  gleefully.  "I  kent  they  would 
come  round  in  time.  Ay,  even  my  mother,  'at 
was  sae  mad  at  first,  sits  for  hours  noo  aside 
her,  haudin'  her  hand.  They're  juist  insepa- 
rable." 


Io6  A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

The  time  came  when  we  had  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Geogehan  and  Eppie  to  tea. 

"  It's  true  enough,"  Leeby  ran  ben  to  tell  Jess, 
"'at  Eppie  an'  the  wife's  fond  o'  ane  another.  I 
wouldna  hae  believed  it  o'  Eppie  if  I  hadna  seen 
it,  but  I  assure  ye  they  sat  even  at  the  tea-table 
haudin'  ane  another's  hands.  I  waurant  they're 
doin't  this  meenute." 

"I  vvasna  born  on  a  Sabbath,"  retorted  Jess. 
"  Na,  na,  dinna  tell  me  Eppie's  fond  o'  her.  Tell 
Eppie  to  come  but  to  the  kitchen  when  the  tea's 
ower. " 

Jess  and  Eppie  had  half  an  hour's  conversation 
alone,  and  then  our  guests  left. 

It's  a  richt  guid  thing,"  said  Hendry,  "'at 
Eppie  has  ta'en  sic  a  notion  o'  the  wife." 

"  Ou,  ay,"  said  Jess. 

Then  Hendry  hobbled  out  of  the  house. 

"  What  said  Eppie  to  ye  ? "  Leeby  asked  her 
mother. 

" Juist  what  I  expeckit,"  Jess  answered.  "Ye 
see,  she's  dependent  on  Jeames,  so  she  has  to 
butter  up  at  him." 

"  Did  she  say  on y thing  aboot  haudin'  the  wife's 
hand  sae  fond-like  ?  " 

"  Ay,  she  said  it  was  an  awfu'  trial  to  her,  an' 
'at  it  sickened  her  to  see  Jeames  an*  the  wife  baith 
believin'  'at  she  likit  to  do't " 


A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  to; 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

VISITORS   AT   THE   MANSE. 

ON  bringing  home  his  bride,  the  minister 
showed  her  to  us,  and  we  thought  she  would  do 
when  she  realized  that  she  was  not  the  minister. 
She  was  a  grand  lady  from  Edinburgh,  though 
very  frank,  and  we  simple  folk  amused  her  a  good 
deal,  especially  when  we  were  sitting  cowed  in 
the  manse  parlor  drinking  a  dish  of  tea  with  her, 
as  happened  to  Leeby,  her  father,  and  me,  three 
days  before  Jamie  came  home. 

Leeby  had  refused  to  be  drawn  into  conver- 
sation, like  one  who  knew  her  place,  yet  all  her 
actions  were  genteel  and  her  monosyllabic  replies 
in  the  Englishy  tongue,  as  of  one  who  was,  after 
all,  a  little  above  the  common.  When  the 
minister's  wife  asked  her  whether  she  took  sugar 
and  cream,  she  said  politely,  "If  you  please" 
(though  she  did  not  take  sugar),  a  reply  that  con- 
trasted with  Hendry's  equally  well-intended 
answer  to  the  same  question.  "I'm  nopartikler," 
was  what  Hendry  said. 

rlendry  had  left  home  glumly,   declaring  that 


toS  A  WINDOW  itf  THRUMS. 

the  white  collar  Jess  had  put  on  him  would 
throttle  him ;  but  her  feikieness  ended  in  his 
surrender,  and  he  was  looking  unusually  perjink. 
Had  not  his  daughter  been  present  he  would  have- 
been  the  most  at  ease  of  the  company,  but  her 
manners  were  too  fine  not  to  make  an  impression 
upon  one  who  knew  her  on  her  every-day 
behavior,  and  she  had  also  ways  of  bringing 
Hendry  to  himself  by  a  touch  beneath  the  table. 
It  was  in  church  that  Leeby  brought  to  perfection 
her  manner  of  looking  after  her  father.  When 
he  had  confidence  in  the  preacher's  soundness,  he 
would  sometimes  have  slept  in  his  pew  if  Leeby 
had  not  had  a  watchful  foot.  She  wakened  him 
in  an  instant,  while  still  looking  modestly  at  the 
pulpit ;  however  reverently  he  might  try  to  fall 
over,  Leeby's  foot  went  out.  She  was  such  an 
artist  that  I  never  caught  her  in  the  act.  All  I 
knew  for  certain  was  that,  now  and  then,  Hendry 
suddenly  sat  up. 

The  ordeal  was  over  when  Leeby  went  upstairs 
to  put  on  her  things.  After  tea  Hendry  had 
become  bolder  in  talk,  his  subject  being  minis- 
terial. He  had  an  extraordinary  knowledge,  got 
no  one  knew  where,  of  the  matrimonial  affairs  of 
all  the  ministers  of  these  parts,  and  his  stories 
about  them  ended  frequently  with  a  chuckle. 
He  always  took  it  for  granted  that  a  minister's 
marriage  was  womanhood's  great  triumph,  and 
that  the  particular  woman  who  got  him  must  be 


A  WLWdW  tti  ftiRUMS.  16$ 

| 

very  clever.  Some  of  his  tales  were  even  more 
curious  than  he  thought  them,  such  as  the  one 
Leeby  tried  to  interrupt  by  saying  we  must  be 
going-. 

"There's  Mr.  Pennycuick,  noo,"  said  Hendry, 
shaking  his  head  in  wonder  at  what  he  had  to 
tell;  "him  'at's  minister  at  Tilliedrum.  Weel, 
when  he  was  a  probationer  he  was  michty  poor, 
an'  ane  day  he  was  walkin'  into  Thrums  fraeGlen 
Quharity,  an'  he  tak's  a  rest  at  a  little  housey  on 
the  road.  The  fowk  didna  ken  him  ava,  but  they 
saw  he  was  a  minister,  an'  the  lassie  was  sorry  to 
see  him  wi'  sic  an  auld  hat.  What  think  ye  she 
did?" 

"Come  away,  father,"  said  Leeby,  re-entering 
the  parlor  ;  but  Hendry  was  now  in  full  pursuit 
of  his  story. 

"  I'll  tell  ye  what  she  did,"  he  continued.  "She 
juist  took  his  hat  awa,  an'  put  her  father's  new 
ane  in  its  place,  an'  Mr.  Pennycuick  never  kent 
the  differ  till  he  landed  in  Thrums.  It  was  ter- 
rible kind  o'  her.  Ay,  but  the  auld  man  would  be 
in  a  michty  rage  when  he  found  she  had  swappit 
the  hats. " 

"Come  away,"  said  Leeby,  still  politely, 
though  she  was  burning  to  tell  her  mother  how 
Hendry  had  disgraced  them. 

"The  minister,"  said  Hendry,  turning  his  back 
on  Leeby,  "didna  forget  the  lassie.  Na,  as  sune 
as  he  got  a  kirk,  he  married  her.  Ay,  she  got  her 


1 10  A  WINDOW  IN  THRUM^. 

reward  He  married  her.  It  was  rale  noble  of 
'im." 

I  do  not  know  what  Leeby  said  to  Hendry 
when  she  got  him  beyond  the  manse  gate,  for  I 
stayed  behind  to  talk  to  the  minister.  As  it 
turned  out,  the  minister's  wife  did  most  of  the 
talking,  smiling  good  -  humoredly  at  country 
gawkiness  the  while. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  am  sure  I  shall  like 
Thrums,  though  those  teas  to  the  congregation  are 
a  little  trying.  Do  you  know,  Thrums  is  the  only 
place  I  was  ever  in  where  it  struck  me  that  the 
men  are  cleverer  than  the  women." 

She  told  us  why. 

"Well,  to-night  affords  a  case  in  point.  Mr. 
McQumpha  was  quite  brilliant,  was  he  not,  in 
comparison  with  his  daughter?  Really,  she 
seemed  so  put  out  at  being  at  the  manse  that  she 
could  not  raise  her  eyes.  I  question  if  she  would 
know  me  again,  and  I  am  sure  she  sat  in  the 
room  as  one  blindfolded.  I  left  her  in  the 
bedroom  a  minute,  and  I  assure  you,  when  I 
returned  she  was  still  standing  on  the  same  spot 
in  the  centre  of  the  floor." 

I  pointed  out  that  Leeby  had  been  awestruck. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  she  said  ;  "  but  it  is  a  pity  she 
cannot  make  use  of  her  eyes,  if  not  of  her  tongue. 
Ah,  the  Thrums  women  are  good,  I  believe,  but 
their  wits  are  sadly  in  need  of  sharpening.  I 
dare  say  it  comes  of  living-  in  so  small  a  place.' 


A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  m 

I  overtook  Leeby  on  the  brae,  aware,  as  I  saw 
her  alone,  that  it  had  been  her  father  whom  I 
passed  talking  toTammas  Haggart  in  the  square. 
Hendry  stopped  to  have  what  he  called  a  tove 
with  any  likely  person  he  encountered,  and,  in- 
deed, though  he  and  I  often  took  a  walk  on  Satur- 
days, I  generally  lost  him  before  we  were  clear 
of  the  town. 

In  a  few  moments  Leeby  and  I  were  at  home 
to  give  Jess  the  news. 

"  Whaur's  yer  father?"  asked  Jess,  as  if  Hen- 
dry's  way  of  dropping  behind  was  still  unknown 
to  her. 

"Ou,  I  left  him  speakin'  to  Gavin  Birse,"  said 
Leeby.  "  I  daur  say  he's  awa  to  some  hoose. " 

"  It's  no  very  silvendy  (safe)  his  comin'  ower  the 
brae  by  himsel',"  said  Jess,  adding  in  a  bitter  tone 
of  conviction,  "but  he'll  gang  in  to  no  hoose  as 
lang  as  he's  so  weel  dressed.  Na,  he  would  think 
it  boastfu'." 

I  sat  down  to  a  book  by  the  kitchen  fire  ;  but, 
as  Leeby  became  communicative,  1  read  less  and 
less.  While  she  spoke  she  was  baking  bannocks 
with  all  the  might  of  her,  and  Jess,  leaning  for- 
ward in  her  chair,  was  arranging  them  in  a  semi- 
circle round  the  fire. 

"Na,"  was  the  first  remark  of  Leeby's  that 
came  between  me  and  my  book,  "it  is  no  new 
furniture." 

"But  there  was  thre«   cart-loads  o't,   Leeby, 


112  A    WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

sent  on  frae  Edinbory.  Tibbie  Birse  helpit 
to  lift  it  in,  and  she  said  the  parlor  furniture 
beat  a'." 

"Ou,  it's  substantial,  but  it  is  no  new.  I  sepad 
it  had  been  bocht  cheap  second-hand,  for  the 
chair  I  had  was  terrible  scratched  like,  an'  what's 
mair,  the  airm-chair  was  a  heap  shinnier  than  the 
rest. " 

"Ay,  ay,  I  wager  it  had  been  new  stuffed. 
Tibbie  said  the  carpet  cowed  for  a'  grandeur." 

"Oh,  I  dinna  deny  it's  a  guid  carpet ;  but  if  it's 
been  turned  once  it's  been  turned  half  a  dozen 
times,  so  it's  far  frae  new.  Ay,  an'  forby,  it  was 
rale  threadbare  aneath  the  table,  so  ye  may  be 
sure  they've  been  cuttin't  an'  puttin'  the  worn 
pairt  whaur  it  would  be  least  seen." 

"  They  say  'at  there's  twa  grand  gas  brackets 
i'  the  parlor,  an'  a  wonderfu'  gasoliery  i'  the 
dinin'-room." 

"We  wasna  i'  the  dinin'-room,  so  I  ken  naeth- 
ing  aboot  the  gasoliery  ;  but  I'll  tell  ye  what  the 
gas  brackets  is.  I  recognized  them  immediately. 
Ye  mind  the  auld  gasoliery  i'  the  dinin'-room 
had  twa  lichts  ?  Ay,  then,  the  parlor  brackets  is 
made  oot  o'  the  auld  gasoliery. " 

"Weel,  Leeby,  as  sure  as  ye' re  standin'  there, 
that  passed  through  my  head  as  sune  as  Tibbie 
mentioned  them  !  " 

"There's  nae  doot  about  it.  Ay,  I  was  in  ane 
o'  the  bedrooms,  too  !  " 


A    WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  113 

"It  would  be  grand?" 

"  I  wouldna  say  'at  it  was  partikler  grand,  but 
there  was  a  great  mask  (quantity)  o'  things  in't, 
an'  near  everything  was  covered  wi'  cretonne. 
But  the  chairs  dinna  match.  There  was  a  very 
bonny-painted  cloth  alang  the  chimney — what 
they  call  a  mantelpiece  border,  I  warrant." 

"Sal,   I've  often  wondered   what    they  was." 

"  Weel,  I  assure  ye  they  winna  be  ill  to  mak, 
for  the  border  was  juist  nailed  upon  a  board  laid 
on  the  chimney.  There's  naething  to  hender's 
makkin'  ane  for  the  room. " 

"Ay,  we  could  sew  something  on  the  border 
instead  o'  paintin't.  The  room  lookit  weel,  ye 
say  ?  " 

"Yes,  but  it  was  economically  furnished. 
There  was  nae  carpet  below  the  wax-cloth  ;  na, 
there  was  nane  below  the  bed  either." 

"  Was't  a  grand  bed  ?  " 

"  It  had  a  fell  lot  o'  brass  aboot  it,  but  there  was 
juist  one  pair  o'  blankets.  I  thocht  it  was  gey 
shabby,  ha'en  the  ewer  a  different  pattern  frae  the 
basin  ;  ay,  an'  there  was  juist  a  poker  in  the  fire- 
place— there  was  nae  tangs." 

"Yea,  yea  ;  they'll  haebut  one  set  o'  bedroom 
fire-irons.  The  tangs'll  be  in  anither  room.  Tod, 
that's  no  sae  michty  grand  for  Edinbory.  What 
like  was  she  hersel'  ? " 

"Ou,  very  ladylike  and  saft  spoken.  She's  a 
canty  body  an'  frank.  She  wears  her  hair  low  on 
8 


114  •*   WINDO  W  IN  THR  VMS. 

the  left  side  to  hod  (hide)  a  scar,  an'  there's  twa 
warts  on  her  richt  hand." 

"  There  hadna   been  a  fire  i'  the  parlor?  " 

"No,  but  it  was  ready  to  licht.  There  was 
sticks  and  paper  in't.  The  paper  was  oot  o'  a 
dressmaker's  journal." 

"Ye  say  so?  She'll  mak  her  ain  frocks,  I 
sepad. " 

When  Hendry  entered  to  take  off  his  collar  and 
coat  before  sitting  down  to  his  evening  meal  of 
hot  water,  porter,  and  bread  mixed  in  a  bowl, 
Jess  sent  me  off  to  the  attic.  As  I  climbed  the 
stairs  I  remembered  that  the  minister's  wife 
thought  Leeby  in  need  of  sharpening. 


A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  115 


CHAPTER  XV. 

HOW  GAVIN  BIRSE  PUT  IT  TO  MAG  LOWNIE. 

IN  a  wet  day  the  rain  gathered  in  blobs  on  the 
road  that  passed  our  garden.  Then  it  crawled 
into  the  cart-tracks  until  the  road  was  streaked 
with  water.  Lastly,  the  water  gathered  in  heavy 
yellow  pools.  If  the  on-ding  still  continued,  clods 
of  earth  toppled  from  the  garden  dyke  into  the 
ditch. 

On  such  a  day,  when  even  the  dulseman  had 
gone  into  shelter,  and  the  women  scudded  by 
with  their  wrappers  over  their  heads,  came  Gavin 
Birse  to  our  door.  Gavin,  who  was  the  Glen 
Quharity  post,  was  still  young,  but  had  never 
been  quite  the  same  man  sine  >  some  amateurs  in 
the  glen  ironed  his  back  for  rheumatism.  I 
thought  he  had  called  to  have  a  crack  with  me. 
He  sent  his  compliments  up  to  the  attic,  however, 
by  Leeby,  and  would  I  come  and  be  a  witness  ? 

Gavin  came  up  and  explained.  He  had  taken 
off  his  scarf  and  thrust  it  into  his  pocket,  lest  the 
rain  should  take  the  color  out  of  it.  His  boots 
cheeped,  and  his  shoulders  had  risen  to  his  ears. 
He  stood  steaming  before  my  fire. 


H 6  A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS, 

"If  it's  no'  ower  muckle  to  asky«,"h»  said, 
"I  would  like  yc  for  a  witness." 

"A  witness!  But  for  what  do  you  need  a 
witness,  Gavin  ?  " 

"I  want  ye,"  he  said,  "to  come  wi'  me  to 
Mag's,  and  be  a  witness." 

Gavin  and  Mag  Birse  had  been  engaged  for  a 
year  or  more.  Mag  was  the  daughter  ot  Janet 
Ogilvy,  who  was  best  remembered  as  the  body 
that  took  the  hill  (that  is,  wandered  about  it)  for 
twelve  hours  on  the  day  Mr.  Dishart,  the  Auld 
Licht  minister,  accepted  a  call  to  another  church. 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me,  Gavin,"  I  asked, 
"that  your  marriage  is  to  take  place  to-day  ?  " 

By  the  twist  of  his  mouth  I  saw  that  he  was 
only  deferring  a  smile. 

"Far  frae  that,"  he  said. 

"Ah,  then,  you  have  quarrelled,  and  I  am  to 
speak  up  for  you  ? " 

"Na,  na,"  he  said,  "I  dinna  want  ye  to  do 
that  above  all  things.  It  would  be  a  favor  if  ye 
could  gie  me  a  bad  character." 

This  beat  me,  and,  I  dare  say,  my  face  showed  it. 

"I'm  no'  juist  what  ye  would  call  anxious  to 
marry  Mag  noo,"  said  Gavin,  without  a  tremor. 

I  told  him  to  go  on. 

"  There's  a  lassie  oot  at  Craigiebuckle,"  he  ex- 
plained, "  workin'  on  the  farm — Jeanie  Luke  by 
name.  Ye  may  hae  seen  her  ? " 

"What  of  her  ? "  I  asked,  severely. 


A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  1 1 7 

"Weel,"   said  Gavin,    still   unabashed,    "I'm 

thinkin'  noo  'at  I  would  rather  hae  her." 
Then  he  stated  his  case  more  fully. 
"Ay,  I  thocht  I  liked  Mag  oncommon  till  I  saw 

Jeanie,   an'  I  like  her  fine  yet,   but  I   prefer  the 

other  ane.     That  state  o'  matters  canna  gang  on 

forever,  so  I  came  into  Thrums  the  day  to  settle't 

one  wy  or  another." 

"And  how,"  I  asked,    "  do  you  propose  going 

about  it  ?     It  is  a  somewhat  delicate  business." 
"Ou,  I  see  nae  great  difficulty  in't.     I'll  speir 

at  Mag,  blunt  oot,  if  she'll  let  me  aff.     Yes,  I'll 

put  it  to  her  plain. " 

"  You're  sure  Jeanie  would  take  you  ?  " 

"Ay  ;  oh,  there's  nae  fear  o'  that." 

"  But  if  Mag  keeps  you  to  your  bargain?  " 

"Weel,  in  that  case  there's  nae  harm  done." 

"  You  are  in  a  great  hurry,  Gavin  ? '' 

"Ye  may  say  that ;  but  I  want  to  be  married 

The  wifie  I  lodge  wi'  canna  last  lang,  an'  I  would 

like  to  settle  doon  in  some  place." 

"So  you  are  on  your  way  to  Mag's  now?" 
"Ay,  we'll  get  her  in  atween  twal'  and  ane." 
"  Oh,  yes  ;  but  why  do  you  want  me  to  go  with 

you  ? " 

"  I  want  ye  for  a  witness.     If  she  winna  let 

me  aff,  weel  an'  guid  ;  an'  if  she  will,  it's  better 

to  hae  a  witness  in  case  she  should  go  back  on 

her  word." 
Gavin  made  his  proposal  briskly,  and  as  coolly 


1 1 8  A   WINDO  W  IN  THR UMS. 

as  if  he  were  only  asking  me  to  go  fishing  ;  but  1 
did  not  accompany  him  to  Mag's.  He  left  the 
house  to  look  for  another  witness,  and  about  an 
hour  afterward  Jess  saw  him  pass  with  Tarn  mas 
Haggart.  Tammas  cried  in  during  the  evening 
to  tell  us  how  the  mission  prospered. 

"Mind  ye,"  said  Tammas,  a  drop  of  water 
hanging  to  the  point  of  his  nose,  "  I  disclaim  all 
responsibility  in  the  business.  I  ken  Mag  weel 
for  a  thrifty,  respectable  woman,  as  her  mither 
was  afore  her,  an'  so  I  said  to  Gavin  when  he 
came  to  speir  me." 

"Ay,  mony  a  pirn  has  'Lisbeth  filled  to  me," 
said  Hendry,  settling  down  to  a  reminiscence. 

"No  to  be  o\ver  hard  on  Gavin,"  continued 
Tammas,  forestalling  Hendry,  "he  took  what  I 
said  in  guid  part ;  but  aye  when  I  stopped  speakin, 
to  draw  breath,  he  says,  'The  question  is,  will 
ye  come  wi'  me  ? '  He  was  michty  made  up  in 's 
mind." 

"Weel,  ye  went  wi'  him,"  suggested  Jess,  who 
wanted  to  bring  Tammas  to  the  point. 

"Ay,"  said  the  stone-breaker,  "  but  no  in  sic  a 
hurry  as  that." 

He  worked  his  mouth  round  and  round,  to 
clear  the  course  as  it  were  for  a  sarcasm. 

"Fowk  often  say,"  he  continued,  "'at  'am 
quick  beyond  the  ordinar'  in  seein'  the  humorous 
side  o'  things." 

Here  Tammas  paused  and  looked  at  us. 


A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  n0 

"So  ye  are,  Tammas,"  said  Hen  dry.  "  Losh, 
ye  mind  hoo  ye  saw  the  humorous  side  o'  me 
wearin'  a  pair  o'  boots  'at  wisna  marrows  !  No, 
the  ane  had  a  toe-piece  on,  an'  the  other  hadna." 

"  Ye  juist  wore  them  sometimes  when  ye  was 
delvin',"  broke  in  Jess  ;  "ye  have  as  guid  a  pair 
o'  boots  as  ony  in  Thrums." 

"Ay,  but  I  had  worn  them/'  said  Hendry, 
"  at  odd  times  for  mair  than  a  year,  an'  I  had 
never  seen  the  humorous  side  o'  them.  Weel,  as 
fac  as  death  (here  he  addressed  me),  Tammas  had 
juist  seen  them  twa  or  three  times  when  he  saw 
the  humorous  side  o'  them.  Syne  I  saw  their 
humorous  side,  too,  but  no  till  Tammas  pointed 
it  oot." 

"That  was  naething,"  said  Tammas,  "nae- 
thing ava  to  some  things  I've  done." 

"But  what  aboot  Mag?  "  said  Leeby. 

"We  wasna  that  length,  was  we? ''  said  Tam- 
mas. "  Na,  we  was  speakin'  aboot  the  humorous 
side.  Ay,  wait  a  wee,  I  didna  mention  the 
humorous  side  for  naething." 

He  paused  to  reflect. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  said  at  last,  brightening  up. 
"I  was  sayin'  to  ye  hoo  quick  I  was  to  see  the 
humorous  side  o'  onything.  Ay,  then,  what 
made  me  say  that  was  'at  in  a  clink  (flash)  I  saw 
the  humorous  side  o'  Gavin's  position." 

"Man,  man,"  said  Hendry,  admiringly,  "an 
what  is  't  ?  " 


180  A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS, 

"Oh,  it's  this  :  there's  something  humorous  in 
speirin'  a  woman  to  let  ye  aff  so  as  ye  can  be 
married  to  another  woman." 

"I  daur  say  there  is,"  said  Hendry,  doubt- 
fully. 

"  Did  she  let  him  aff?  "  asked  Jess,  taking  the 
words  out  of  Leeby's  mouth. 

"I'm  comin'  to  that,"  said  Tammas.  "Gavin 
proposes  to  me  after  I  had  ha'en  my  laugh " 

"Yes,"  cried  Hendry,  banging  the  table  with 
his  fist,  "it  has  a  humorous  side.  Ye're  richt 
again,  Tammas." 

"I  wish  ye  wadna  blatter  (beat)  the  table,  "said 
Jess,  and  then  Tammas  proceeded  : 

"Gavin  wanted  me  to  tak  paper  an'  ink  an'  a 
pen  wi'  me,  to  write  the  proceedin's  doon,  but  I 
said,  '  Na,  na,  I'll  tak  paper,  but  nae  ink  nor  nae 
pen,  for  there'll  be  ink  an'  a  pen  there. '  That  was 
what  I  said." 

"An'  did  she  let  him  aff?  "  asked  Leeby. 

"  Weel,"  said  Tammas,  "  aff  we  goes  to  Mag's 
hoose,  an'  sure  enough  Mag  was  in.  She  was 
alane,  too  ;  so  Gavin,  no  to  waste  time,  juist  sat 
doon  for  politeness'  sake,  an'  sune  rises  up  again  ; 
an'  says  he,  '  Marget  Lownie,  I  hae  a  solemn 
question  to  speir  at  ye,  namely  this,  Will  you, 
Marget  Lownie,  let  me,  Gavin  Birse,  aff?" 

"  Mag  would  start  at  that  ?  " 

"Sal,  she  was  braw  an' cool.  I  thocht  she 
maun  hae  got  wind  o'  his  intentions  aforehand. 


A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  12 1 

for  she  juist  replies,  quiet-like,  '  Hoo  do  ye  want 
aff,  Gavin?' 

" 'Because,' says  he,  like  a  book,  'my  affec- 
tions has  undergone  a  change.' 

"  '  Ye  mean  Jean  Luke  ? '  says  Mag. 

"  'That  is  wha  I  mean,'  says  Gavin,  very  strait- 
forrard." 

"  But  she  didna  let  him  aff,  did  she  ?  " 

"  Na,  she  wasna  the  kind.  Says  she,  '  I  wonder 
to  hear  ye,  Gavin,  but  'am  no  goin'  to  agree  to 
naething  o1  that  sort' 

"  'Think  it  ower,'  says  Gavin. 

"  'Na,  my  mind's  made  up,'  said  she. 

"'Ye  would  sune  get  anither  man,' he  says 
earnestly. 

"  '  Hoo  do  I  ken  that  ?  'shespeirs,  rale  sensibly, 
I  thocht,  for  men's  no  sae  easy  to  get 

"  '  Am  sure  o'  't,'  Gavin  says,  wi'  michty  con- 
viction in  his  voice,  '  for  ye're  bonny  to  look  at, 
an'  weel  kent  for  bein'  a  guid  body.' 
t     "  '  Ay,'  says  Mag,  '  I'm  glad  ye  like  me,  Gavin, 
for  ye  have  to  tak  me. ' " 

"That  put  a  clincher  on  him,"  interrupted 
Hen  dry. 

"He  was  loth  to  gie  in,"  replied  Tammas,  so 
he  says,  'Ye  think  'am  a  fine  character,  Marget 
Lownie,  but  ye're  very  far  mista'en.  I  woulclna 
wonder  but  what  I  was  lossin'  my  place  some  o' 
thae  days,  an'  syne  whaur  would  ye  be  ? — Mar- 
get  Lownie,'  he  goes  on,'  'am  n  at 'rally  lazy  an' 


122  A  WINDOW  IM  ?HRVMS. 

fond  o'  the  drink.  As  sure  as  ye  stand  there, 
'am  a  reg'lar  deevil  I ' ' 

"That  was  strong  language,"  said  Hen  dry, 
but  he  would  be  wantin'  to  fleg  (frighten)  her  ? " 

"Juist  so,  but  he  didna  manage  't,  for  Mag 
says  :  '  We  a'  hae  oor  faults,  Gavin,  an'  deevil  or 
no  deevil,  ye're  the  man  for  me  !  " 

"Gavin  thocht a  bit, "continued Tammas,  "an* 
syne  he  tries  her  on  a  new  tack.  'Marget 
Lownie,'  he  says,  '  ye're  father's  an  auld  man  noo, 
an'  he  has  naebody  but  yersel'  to  look  after  him. 
I'm  thinkin'  it  would  be  kind  o' cruel  o'  me  to  tak' 
ye  awa  frae  him  ? ' ' 

"Mag  wouldna  be  ta'enin  wi'that ;  she  wasna 
born  on  a  Sawbath,"  said  Jess,  using  one  of  her 
favorite  sayings. 

' '  She  wasna, "  answered  Tammas.  ' '  Says  she, 
'  Hae  nae  fear  on  that  score,  Gavin  ;  my  father's 
fine  willin'  to  spare  me  ! ' ' 

"An'  that  ended  it?" 

"Ay,  that  ended  it." 

' '  Did  ye  tak'  it  doon  in  writin'  ? "  asked 
Hen  dry. 

"There  was  nae  need,"  said  Tammas,  handing 
round  his  snuff-mull.  "  No,  I  never  touched 
paper.  When  I  saw  the  thing  was  settled,  I  left 
them  to  their  coortin'.  They're  to  tak  a  look  at 
Snecky  Hobart's  auld  hoose  the  nicht.  It's  to 
let." 


A  WINDOW  IN  TUMJM& 


CHAPTER  XVL 

THE   SON    FROM    LONDON. 

IN  the  spring  of  the  year  there  used  to  come  to 
Thrums  a  painter  from  nature,  whom  Hendry 
spoke  of  as  the  drawer.  He  lodged  with  Jess  in 
my  attic,  and  when  the  weavers  met  him  they 
said,  "Weel,  drawer,"  and  then  passed  on,  grin- 
ning. Tammas  Haggart  was  the  first  to  say 
this. 

The  drawer  was  held  a  poor  man  because  he 
straggled  about  the  country  looking  for  subjects 
for  his  draws  ;  and  Jess,  as  was  her  way,  gave 
him  many  comforts  for  which  she  would  nut 
charge.  That,  I  dare  say,  was  why  he  painted 
for  her  a  little  portrait  of  Jamie.  When  the 
drawer  came  back  to  Thrums  he  always  found  the 
painting  in  a  frame  in  the  room.  Here  I  must 
make  a  confession  about  Jess.  She  did  not  in  her 
secret  mind  think  the  portrait  quite  the  thing,  and 
as  soon  as  the  drawer  departed  it  was  removed 
from  the  frame  to  make  way  for  a  calendar.  The 
deception  was  very  innocent,  Jess  being  anxious 
not  to  hurt  the  donor's  feelings. 


A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

To  those  who  have  the  artist's  eye,  the  picture, 
which  hangs  in  my  school-house  now,  does  not 
show  a  handsome  lad,  Jamie  being  short  and 
dapper,  with  straw-colored  hair,  and  a  chin  that 
ran  away  into  his  neck.  That  is  how  I  once  re- 
garded him,  but  I  have  little  heart  for  criticism  of 
those  I  like,  and  despite  his  madness  for  a  season, 
of  which,  alas  !  I  shall  have  to  tell,  I  am  always 
Jamie's  friend.  Even  to  hear  any  one  disparag- 
ing the  appearance  of  Jess'  son  is  to  me  a  pain. 

All  Jess'  acquaintances  knew  that  in  the  begin- 
ning of  every  month  a  registered  letter  reached 
her  from  London.  To  her  it  was  not  a  matter  to 
keep  secret.  She  was  proud  that  the  help  she  and 
Hendry  needed  in  the  gloaming  of  their  lives 
should  come  from  her  beloved  son,  and  the  neigh- 
bors esteemed  Jamie  because  he  was  good  to  his 
mother.  Jess  had  more  humor  than  any  other 
woman  I  have  known,  while  Leeby  was  but 
sparingly  endowed  ;  yet,  as  the  month  neared  its 
close,  it  was  the  daughter  who  put  on  the  humorist, 
Jess  thinking  money  too  serious  a  thing  to  jest 
about  Then  if  Leeby  had  a  moment  for  gossip, 
as  when  ironing  a  dicky  for  Hendry,  and  the  iron 
was  a  trifle  too  hot,  she  would  look  archly  at  me 
before  addressing  her  mother  in  these  words  : 

"Will  he  send,  think  ye?  " 

Jess,  who  had  a  conviction  that  he  would  send, 
affected  surprise  at  the  question. 

"  Will  Jamie  send  this  montn,  <lo  y*  mean  ( 


A  WINDOW  Iff  THRUMS.  125 

Na,  oh,  losh  no  I  it's  no  to  be  expeckit  Na,  he 
couldna  do't  this  time." 

11  That's  what  ye  aye  say,  but  he  aye  sends. 
Yes,  an'  vara  weel  ye  ken  'at  he  will  send." 

"  Na,  na,  Leeby ;  dinna  let  me  ever  think  o' 
sic  a  thing  this  month." 

"As  if  ye  wasna  thinkin'  o't  day  an'  nicht  1 " 

"  He's  terrible  mindfu',  Leeby,  but  he  doesna 
hae't.  Na,  no  this  month  ;  mebbe  next  month." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  mother,  at  ye'll  no 
be  up  oot  o'  yer  bed  on  Monunday  an  hour  afore 
yer  usual  time,  lookin'  for  the  post  ?  " 

"Na,  no  this  time.  I  may  be  up,  an'  tak' a 
look  for  'im,  but  no  expeckin'  a  registerdy ;  na 
na,  that  wouldna  be  reasonable." 

"  Reasonable  here,  reasonable  there,  up  you'll 
be,  keekin'  (peering)  through  the  blind  to  see  if  the 
post's  comin',  ay,  an'  what's  mair,  the  post  will 
come,  and  a  registerdy  in  his  hand  wi'  fifteen 
shillings  in't  at  the  least" 

"Dinna  say  fifteen,  Leeby:  I  would  never 
think  o'  sic  a  sum.  Mebbe  five " 

"  Five  !  I  wonder  to  hear  ye.  Vera  weel  you 
ken  'at  since  he  had  twenty-twa  shillin's  in  the 
week  he's  never  sent  less  than  half  a  sovereign." 

"  No,  but  we  canna  expeck " 

"Expect  I     No,  but  it's  no  expeck — it's  get." 

On  the  Monday  morning  when  I  came  down 
stairs,  Jess  was  in  her  chair  by  the  window,  beam- 
ing, a  piece  of  paper  in  her  hand.  I  did  not  re- 


126  A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

quire  to  be  told  about  it,  but  I  was  told.  Jess 
had  been  up  before  Leeby  could  get  the  fire  lit, 
with  great  difficulty  reaching  the  window  in  her 
bare  feet,  and  many  a  time  had  she  said  that  the 
post  must  be  by. 

"Havers,"  said  Leeby,  "he  winna  be  for  an 
hour  yet.  Come  awa'  back  to  your  bed. " 

"Na,  he  maun  be  by,''  Jess  would  say  in  a 
few  minutes;  "  ou,  we  couldna  expeck  this 
month." 

So  it  went  on  until  Jess'  hand  shook  the  blind. 

"He's  comin',  Leeby,  he's  comin'.  He'll  no 
hae  naething,  na,  I  couldna  expeck He's  by  !  " 

"I  dinna  believe  it,"  cried  Leeby,  running  to 
the  window,  "  he's  juist  at  his  tricks  again. " 

This  was  in  reference  to  a  way  our  saturnine 
post  had  of  pretending  that  he  brought  no  letters 
and  passing  the  door.  Then  he  turned  back. 
"Mistress  McQumpha,"  he  cried,  and  whistled. 

"Run,  Leeby,  run,"  said  Jess  excitedly. 

Leeby  hastened  to  the  door,  and  came  back 
with  a  registered  letter. 

"  Registerdy, "  she  cried  in  triumph,  and  Jess, 
with  fond  hands,  opened  the  letter.  By  the  time 
I  came  down  the  money  was  hid  away  in  a  box 
beneath  the  bed,  where  not  even  Leeby  could  find 
it,  and  Jess  was  on  her  chair  hugging  the  letter. 
She  preserved  all  her  registered  envelopes. 

This  was  the  first  time  I  had  been  in  Thrums 
when  Jamie  was  expected  for  his  ten  days'  holi- 


A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  127 

day,  and  for  a  week  we  discussed  little  else. 
Though  he  had  written  saying  when  he  would 
sail  for  Dundee,  there  was  quite  a  possibility  of 
his  appearing  on  the  brae  at  any  moment,  for  he 
liked  to  take  Jess  and  Leeby  by  surprise.  Hen- 
dry  there  was  no  surprising,  unless  he  was  in  the 
mood  for  it,  and  the  coolness  of  him  was  one  of 
Jess'  grievances.  Just  two  years  earlier  Jamie 
came  north  a  week  before  his  time,  and  his  father 
saw  him  from  the  window.  Instead  of  crying 
out  in  amazement  or  hacking  his  face,  for  he  was 
shaving  at  the  time,  Hen  dry  calmly  wiped  his 
razor  on  the  window-sill,  and  said  : 

' '  Ay,  there's  Jamie. " 

Jamie  was  a  little  disappointed  at  being  seen  in 
this  way,  for  he  had  been  looking  forward  for 
four  and  forty  hours  to  repeating  the  sensation  of 
the  year  before.  On  that  occasion  he  had  got  to 
the  door  unnoticed,  where  he  stopped  to  listen. 
I  dare  say  he  checked  his  breath,  the  better  to 
catch  his  mother's  voice,  for  Jess  being  an  invalid 
Jamie  thought  of  her  first.  He  had  Leeby  sworn 
to  write  the  truth  about  her,  but  many  an  anxious 
hour  he  had  on  hearing  that  she  was  "  complain- 
ing fell  (considerably)  about  her  back  the  day," 
Leeby,  as  he  knew,  being  frightened  to  alarm 
him.  Jamie,  too,  had  given  his  promise  to  tell 
exactly  how  he  was  keeping,  but  often  he  wrote 
that  he  was  "fine  "when  Jess  had  her  doubts. 
When  Hendry  wrote  he  spread  himself  over  the 


128  A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

table,  and  said  that  Jess  was  "juist  about  it,"  or 
"aff  and  on,"  which  does  not  tell  much.  So  Jamie 
hearkened  painfully  at  the  door,  and  by  and  by 
heard  his  mother  say  to  Leeby  that  she  was  sure 
the  teapot  was  running  out.  Perhaps  that  voice 
was  as  sweet  to  him  as  the  music  of  a  maiden  to 
her  lover,  but  Jamie  did  not  rush  into  his  mother's 
arms.  Jess  has  told  me  with  a  beaming  face 
how  craftily  he  behaved.  The  old  man,  of  lungs 
that  shook  Thrums  by  night,  who  went  from  door 
to  door  selling  firewood,  had  a  way  of  shoving 
doors  rudely  open  and  crying  : 

"  Ony  rozetty  roots  ? "  and  him  Jamie  imitated. 

"  Juist  think,"  Jess  said  as  she  recalled  the  in- 
cident, "  what  a  startle  we  got  As  we  think, 
Pete  kicks  open  the  door  and  cries  oot  :  '  Ony 
rozetty  roots  ? '  and  Leeby  says  'No,'  and  gangs 
to  shut  the  door.  Next  minute  she  screeches, 
'  What,  what,  what ! '  and  in  walks  Jamie  1 " 

Jess  was  never  able  to  decide  whether  it  was 
more  delightful  to  be  taken  aback  in  this  way  or 
to  be  prepared  for  Jamie.  Sudden  excitement 
was  bad  for  her  according  to  Hendry,  who  got 
his  medical  knowledge  second-hand  from  persons 
under  treatment,  but  with  Jamie's  appearance  on 
the  threshold  Jess'  health  began  to  improve.  This 
time  he  kept  to  the  appointed  day,  and  the  house 
was  turned  upside  down  in  his  honor.  Such  a 
polish  did  Leeby  put  on  the  flagons  which  hung 
on  the  kitchen  wall  that,  passing  between  them 


A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  139 

and  the  window,  I  thought  once  I  had  been 
struck  by  lightning.  On  the  morning  of  the  day 
that  was  to  bring  him,  Leeby  was  up  at  two 
o'clock,  and  eight  hours  before  he  could  possibly 
arrive  Jess  had  a  night-shirt  warming  for  him  at 
the  fire.  I  was  no  longer  anybody,  except  as  a 
person  who  could  give  Jamie  advice.  Jess  told 
me  what  I  was  to  say.  The  only  thing  he  and 
his  mother  quarrelled  about  was  the  underclothing 
she  would  swaddle  him  in,  and  Jess  asked  me  to 
back  her  up  in  her  entreaties. 

"There's  no  a  doubt,"  she  said,  "but  what  it's 
a  hantle  caulder  here  than  in  London,  an'  it 
would  be  a  terrible  business  if  he  was  to  tak  the 
cauld." 

Jamie  was  to  sail  from  London  to  Dundee,  and 
come  on  to  Thrums  from  Tilliedrum  in  the  post- 
cart.  The  road  at  that  time,  however,  avoided 
the  brae,  and  at  a  certain  point  Jamie's  custom 
was  to  alight,  and  take  the  short  cut  home,  along 
a  farm  road  and  up  the  commonty.  Here,  too, 
Hookey  Crewe,  the  post,  deposited  his  pas- 
senger's box,  which  Hendry  wheeled  home  in  a 
barrow.  Long  before  the  cart  had  lost  sight  of 
Tilliedrum,  Jess  was  at  her  window. 

"Tell  her  Hockey's  often  late  on  Monundays,1 
Leeby  whispered  to  me,  "  for  she'll  gang  oot  o' 
her  mind  if  she  thinks  there's  ony thing  wrang." 

Soon  Jess  was  painfully  excited,  though  she  sat 
as  still  as  salt 
9 


1-0  A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

"It  maun  be  yer  time,"  she  said,  looking  at 
both  Leeby  and  me,  for  in  Thrums  we  went  oot' 
an'  met  our  friends. 

"Hoots,"  retorted  Leeby,  trying  to  be  hardy, 
"  Hookey  canna  be  oot  o'  Tilliedrum  yet." 

"He  maun  hae  startit  lang  syne." 

"  I  wonder  at  ye,  mother,  puttin'  yersel  in  sic  a 
state.  Ye'll  be  ill  when  he  comes. " 

"Na,  am  no  in  nae  state,  Leeby,  but  there'll  no 
be  nae  accident,  will  there  ?  " 

"  It's  most  provokin'  'at  ye  will  think  'at  every 
time  Jamie  steps  into  a  machine  there'll  be  an 
accident.  Am  sure  if  ye  would  tak  mair  after  my 
father,  it  would  be  a  blessin'.  Look  hoo  cool  he 
is." 

' '  Whaur  is  he,  Leeby  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  dinna  ken  The  hon'most  time  I  saw 
him  he  was  layin'  doon  the  law  aboot  something 
to  T'nowhead." 

"  It's  an  awfu'  wy  that  he  has  o'  gaen  oot  with- 
out a  word.  I  wouldna  wonder  'at  he's  no  bein' 
in  time  to  meet  Jamie,  an'  that  would  be  a  pretty 
business." 

"  Od,  ye're  sure  he'll  be  in  braw  time." 

"But  he  hasna  ta'en  the  barrow  wi'  him,  an' 
hoo  is  Jamie's  luggage  to  be  brocht  up  withoot  a 
barrow  ? " 

"Barrow?  He  took  the  barrow  to  the  saw- 
mill an  hour  syne  to  pick  it  up  at  Rob  Angus'  on 
the  wy/' 


A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  13! 

Several  times  Jess  was  sure  she  saw  the  cart  in 
the  distance,  and  implored  us  to  be  oft 

"I'll  tak  no  settle  till  ye're  awa,"  she  said,  her 
face  now  flushed  and  her  hands  working  nerv- 
ously. 

"We've  time  to  gang  and  come  twa  or  three 
times  yet, "  remonstrated  Leeby ;  but  Jess  gave 
me  so  beseeching  a  look  that  I  put  on  my  hat. 
Then  Hendry  dandered  in  to  change  his  coat  de- 
liberately, and  when  the  three  of  us  set  off  we 
left  Jess  with  her  eye  on  the  door  by  which  Jamie 
must  enter.  He  was  her  only  son  now,  and  she 
had  not  seen  him  for  a  year. 

On  the  way  down  the  commonty,  Leeby  had 
the  honor  of  being  twice  addressed  as  Miss  Mc- 
Qumpha,  but  her  father  was  Hendry  to  all,  which 
shows  that  we  make  our  social  position  for 
ourselves.  Hendry  looked  forward  to  Jamie's 
annual  appearance  only  a  little  less  hungrily  than 
Jess,  but  his  pulse  still  beat  regularly.  Leeby 
would  have  considered  it  almost  wicked  to  talk  of 
anything  except  Jamie  now,  but  Hendry  cried  out 
comments  on  the  tatties,  yesterday's  roup,  the 
fall  in  jute,  to  everybody  he  encountered.  When 
he  and  a  crony  had  their  say  and  parted,  it  was  their 
custom  to  continue  the  conversation  in  shouts 
until  they  were  out  of  hearing. 

Only  to  Jess  at  her  window  was  the  cart  late 
that  afternoon.  Jamie  jumped  from  it  in  the  long 


132  A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

great-coat  that  had  been  new  to  Thrums  the  year 
before,  and  Hendry  said  calmly  : 

"Ay,  Jamie." 

Leeby  and  Jamie  made  signs  that  they  recognized 
each  other  as  brother  and  sister,  but  I  was  the 
only  one  with  whom  he  shook  hands.  He  was 
smart  in  his  movements  and  quite  the  gentleman, 
but  the  Thrums  ways  took  hold  of  him  again  at 
once.  He  even  inquired  for  his  mother  in  a  tone 
that  was  meant  to  deceive  me  into  thinking  he 
did  not  care  how  she  was. 

Hendry  would  have  had  a  talk  out  of  him  on 
the  spot,  but  was  reminded  of  the  luggage.  We 
took  the  heavy  farm  road,  and  soon  we  were  at 
the  saw-mill.  I  am  naturally  leisurely,  but  we 
climbed  the  commonty  at  a  stride.  Jamie  pre- 
tended to  be  calm,  but  in  a  dark  place  I  saw  him 
take  Leeby's  hand,  and  after  that  he  said  not  a 
word.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  elbow  of  the 
brae,  where  he  would  come  into  sight  of  his 
mother's  window.  Many,  many  a  time,  I  know, 
that  lad  had  prayed  to  God  for  still  another  sight 
of  the  window  with  his  mother  at  it.  So  we  came 
to  the  corner  where  the  stile  is  that  Sam'l  Dickie 
jumped  in  the  race  for  T'nowhead's  Bell,  and  be- 
fore Jamie  was  the  house  of  his  childhood  and  his 
mother's  window,  and  the  fond,  anxious  face  of 
his  mother  herself.  My  eyes  are  dull,  and  I  did 
not  see  her,  but  suddenly  Jamie  cried  out,  "  My 
mother  1  "  and  Leeby  and  I  were  left  behind. 


A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  133 

When  I  reached  the  kitchen  Jess  was  crying,  and 
her  son's  arms  were  round  her  neck.  I  went 
away  to  my  attic. 

There  was  only  one  other  memorable  event  of 
that  day.  Jamie  had  finished  his  tea,  and  we  all 
sat  round  him,  listening  to  his  adventures  and 
opinions.  He  told  us  how  the  country  should  be 
governed,  too,  and  perhaps  put  on  airs  a  little. 
Hendry  asked  the  questions,  and  Jamie  answered 
them  as  pat  as  if  he  and  his  father  were  going 
through  the  Shorter  Catechism.  When  Jamie  told 
anything  marvellous,  as  how  many  towels  were 
used  at  the  shop  in  a  day,  or  that  twopence  was 
the  charge  for  a  single  shave,  his  father  screwed 
his  mouth  together  as  if  preparing  to  whistle,  and 
then  instead  made  a  curious  clucking  noise  with 
his  tongue,  which  was  reserved  for  the  expression 
of  absolute  amazement  As  for  Jess,  who  was 
given  to  making  much  of  me,  she  ignored  my 
remarks  and  laughed  hilariously  at  jokes  of 
Jamie's  which  had  been  received  in  silence  from 
me  a  few  minutes  before. 

Slowly  it  came  to  me  that  Leeby  had  some- 
thing on  her  mind,  and  that  Jamie  was  talking  to 
her  with  his  eyes.  I  learned  afterward  that  they 
were  plotting  how  to  get  me  out  of  the  kitchen, 
but  were  too  impatient  to  wait.  Thus  it  was  that 
the  great  event  happened  in  my  presence.  Jamie 
rose  and  stood  near  Jess  ;  I  dare  say  he  had 
planned  the  scene  frequently.  Then  he  produced 


134  ^  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

from  his  pocket  a  purse,  and  coolly  opened  it. 
Silence  fell  upon  us  as  we  saw  that  purse.  From 
it  he  took  a  neatly  folded  piece  of  paper,  crumpled 
it  into  a  ball,  and  flung  it  into  Jess'  lap. 

I  cannot  say  whether  Jess  knew  what  it  was. 
Her  hand  shook,  and  for  a  moment  she  let  the 
ball  of  paper  lie  there. 

"Open't  up,"  cried  Leeby,  who  was  in  the 
secret 

"What  is't?"  asked  Hen  dry,  drawing  nearer. 

"It's  juist  a  bit  paper  Jamie  flung  at  me,"  said 
Jess,  and  then  she  unfolded  it 

"It's  a  five-pound  note  !  "  cried  Hendry. 

"Na,  na;  oh,  keep  us  no,"  said  Jess  ;  but  she 
knew  it  was. 

For  a  time  she  could  not  speak. 

"  I  canna  tak  it,  Jamie,"  she  faltered  at  last. 

But  Jamie  waved  his  hand,  meaning  that  it  was 
•othing ;  and  then,  lest  he  should  burst,  hurried 
out  into  the  garden,  where  he  walked  up  and  down 
whistling.  May  God  bless  the  lad,  thought  I. 
I  do  not  know  the  history  of  that  five-pound  note, 
but  well  aware  I  am  that  it  grew  slowly  out  of 
pence  and  silver,  and  that  Jamie  denied  his 
passions  many  things  for  this  great  hour.  His 
sacrifices  watered  his  young  heart  and  kept  it 
fresh  and  tender.  Let  us  no  longer  cheat  our 
consciences  by  talking  of  filthy  lucre.  Money 
may  always  be  a  beautiful  thing.  It  is  we  who 
make  it  grimy. 


CHAPTER  XVTL 

A    HOME    FOR    GENIUSES. 

FROM  hints  he  had  let  drop  at  odd  times  I  knew 
that  Tammas  Haggart  had  a  scheme  for  geniuses, 
but  not  until  the  evening  after  Jamie's  arrival  did 
I  get  it  out  of  him.  Hendry  was  with  Jamie  at 
the  fishing,  and  it  came  about  that  Tammas  and 
I  had  the  pig-sty  to  ourselves. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  when  we  had  got  a  grip 
of  the  subject,  "I  dount  pretend  as  my  ideas  is 
to  be  followed  withoot  deeviation,  but  ondootedly 
something  should  be  done  for  geniuses,  them 
bein'  aboot  the  only  class  as  we  do  naething  for. 
Yet  they're  fowk  to  be  prood  o'  an'  we  shouldna 
let  them  overdo  the  thing,  nor  run  into  debt ;  na, 
na.  There  was  Robbie  Burns,  noo,  as  real  a 
genius  as  ever " 

At  the  pig-sty,  where  we  liked  to  have  mor« 
than  one  topic,  we  had  frequently  to  tempt  Tam- 
mas away  from  Burns. 

"Your  scheme,"  I  interposed,  "is  for  living 
geniuses,  of  course  ?  " 

"Ay, "he  said  thoughtfully,  "them'at's  gone 
canna  b«  brocht  back.  Weel,  my  idea  ia  'at  a 


1 36  A  WINDOW  tM  THRUMS. 

Home  should  be  built  for  geniuses  at  the  public 
expense,  whaur  they  could  all  live  thegither,  an' 
be  decently  looked  after.  Na,  no  in  London  ; 
that's  no  my  plan,  but  I  would  hae't  within  an 
hour's  distance  o'  London,  say  five  mile  frae  the 
market-place,  an'  standin'  in  a  bit  garden,  whaur 
the  geniuses  could  walk  aboot  arm-in-arm,  com- 
posin'  their  minds." 

"You  would  have  the  grounds  walled  in,  I 
suppose,  so  that  the  public  could  not  intrude  ?  " 

"  Weel,  there's  a  difficulty  there,  because,  ye'll 
observe,  as  the  public  would  support  the  insti- 
tootion,  they  would  hae  a  kind  o'  richt  to  look  in. 
How-some-ever,  I  daur  say  we  could  arrange  to 
fling  the  grounds  open  to  the  public  once  a  week 
on  condition  'at  they  didna  speak  to  the  geniuses. 
I'm  thinkin'  'at  if  there  was  a  small  chairge  for 
admission  the  Home  could  be  made  self-sup- 
portin'.  Losh  !  to  think  'at  if  there  had  been  sic 
an  institootion  in  his  time  a  man  micht  hae  sat 
on  the  bit  dyke  and  watched  Robbie  Burns  dan- 
derin'  roond  the " 

"You  would  divide  the  Home  into  suites  of 
rooms,  so  that  every  inmate  would  have  his  own 
apartments  ? " 

"Not  by  no  means ;  na,  na.  The  mair  I  read 
aboot  geniuses  the  mair  clearly  I  see  as  their  wy 
o'  living  alane  ower  muckle  is  ane  o'  the  things 
as  breaks  doon  their  health,  and  makes  them 
meeserable.  I'  the  Home  they  would  hae  a  bed- 


A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS,  tyj 

room  apiece,  but  the  parlor  an'  the  other  sittin'- 
rooms  would  be  for  all,  so  as  they  could  enjoy 
one  another's  company.  The  management  ?  Oh, 
that's  easy.  The  superintendent  would  be  a 
medical  man  appointed  by  Parliament,  and  he 
would  hae  men-servants  to  do  his  biddin'." 

"Not  all  men-servants,  surely  ?  " 

"Every  one  o'  them.  Man,  geniuses  is  no  to 
he  trusted  wi'  womenfolk.  No,  even  Robbie 
Bu " 

"So  he  did;  but  would  the  inmates  have  to 
put  themselves  entirely  in  the  superintendent's 
hands  ? " 

"Nae  doubt;  an'  they  would  see  it  was  the 
wisest  thing  they  could  do.  He  would  be  careful 
o'  their  health,  an'  send  them  early  to  bed  as  weel 
as  hae  them  up  at  eight  sharp.  Geniuses'  healths 
is  always  breakin'  doon  because  of  late  hours,  as 
in  the  case  o'  the  lad  wha  used  often  to  begin  his 
immortal  writin's  at  twal  o'clock  at  nicht,  a  thing 
'at  would  ruin  ony  constitootion.  But  the  super- 
intendent would  see  as  they  had  a  tasty  supper 
at  nine  o'clock — something  as  agreed  wi'  them. 
Then  for  half  an  hour  they  would  quiet  their  brains 
readin'  oot  aloud,  time  about,  frae  sic  a  book  as 
the  'Pilgrim's  Progress,'  an'  the  gas  would  be 
turned  aff  at  ten  precisely." 

"When  would  you  have  them  up  in  the  morn- 
ing?" 

"At  sax  in  summer  an' seven  in  winter.     The 


138  A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

superintendent  would  see  as  they  were  all  properly 
bathed  every  mornin',  cleanliness  bein'  most  im- 
portant for  the  preservation  o'  health." 

"This  sounds  well ;  but  suppose  a  genius  broke 
the  rules — lay  in  bed,  for  instance,  reading  by 
the  light  of  a  candle  after  hours,  or  refused  to 
take  his  bath  in  the  morning  ? " 

"  The  superintendent  would  hae  to  punish  him. 
The  genius  would  be  sent  back  to  his  bed,  maybe. 
An'  if  he  lay  lang  i'  the  mornin'  he  would  hae  to 
gang  withoot  his  breakfast." 

"That  would  be  all  very  well  where  the  inmate 
only  broke  the  regulations  once  in  a  way  ;  but 
suppose  he  were  to  refuse  to  take  his  bath  day  after 
day  (and,  you  know,  geniuses  are  said  to  be  eccen- 
tric in  that  particular),  what  would  be  done  ?  You 
could  not  starve  him  ;  geniuses  are  too  scarce." 

' '  Na,  na  ;  in  a  case  like  that  he  would  hae  to 
be  reported  to  the  public.  The  thing  would  hae 
to  come  afore  the  Hoose  of  Commons.  Ay,  the 
superintendent  would  get  a  member  o'  the  Oppo- 
seetion  to  ask  a  question  such  as  'Can  the  honorable 
gentleman,  the  Secretary  of  State  for  Home  Affairs, 
inform  the  Hoose  whether  it  is  a  fac  that  Mr.  Sic- 
a-one,  the  well-known  genius,  at  present  resident 
in  the  Home  for  Geniuses,  has,  contrary  to  regula- 
tions, perseestently  and  obstinately  refused  to 
change  his  linen  ;  and  if  so,  whether  the  Govern- 
ment proposes  to  take  ony  steps  in  the  matter  ? ' 
The  newspapers  would  report  the  discussion  next 


A  WIHDOW  IN  THkUMS.  139 

mornin',  an'  so  it  would  be  made  public  withoot 
onnecessary  ootlay." 

"In  a  general  way,  however,  you  would  give 
the  geniuses  perfect  freedom  ?  They  could  work 
when  they  liked,  and  come  and  go  when  they 
liked  ?  " 

"Not  so.  The  superintendent  would  fix  the 
hours  o'  wark,  an'  they  would  all  write,  or  what- 
ever it  was,  thegither  in  one  large  room.  Man, 
man,  it  would  mak  a  grand  draw  for  a  painter- 
chield,  that  room,  wi'  all  the  geniuses  working 
awa'  thegither." 

"But  when  the  labors  of  the  day  were  over  the 
genius  would  be  at  liberty  to  make  calls  by  him- 
self, or,  to  run  up,  say,  to  London  for  an  hour  or 
two  ? " 

"  Hoots  no,  that  would  spoil  everything.  It  is 
the  drink,  ye  see,  as  does  for  a  terrible  lot  o' 
geniuses.  Even  Rob " 

"Alas!  yes.  But  would  you  have  them  all 
teetotalers  ? " 

"What  do  ye  tak'  me  for?  Na,  na  ;  the  super- 
intendent would  allow  them  one  glass  o'  toddy 
every  nicht,  an'  mix  it  himsel' ;  but  he  would 
never  let  the  keys  o'  the  press,  whaur  he  kept  the 
drink,  oot  o'  his  hands.  They  would  never  be 
allowed  oot  o'  the  gairden  either,  withoot  a  man 
to  look  after  them ;  an'  I  wouldna  burthen  them 
wi  ower  muckle  pocket  money.  Saxpence  in  th« 
week  would  be  suffeecient" 


146  A  WINDOW  2M  THRUMS. 

"  How  about  their  clothes?  " 

"They  would  get  twa  suits  a  year,  wi'  the 
letter  G  sewed  on  the  shoulders,  so  as  if  they 
were  lost  they  could  be  recognized  and  brocht 
back." 

' '  Certainly  it  is  a  scheme  deserving  consider- 
ation, and  I  have  no  doubt  our  geniuses  would 
jump  at  it ;  but  you  must  remember  that  some  of 
them  would  have  wives." 

"Ay,  an' some  o'  them  would  hae  husbands. 
I've  been  thinkin'  that  oot,  an'  I  daur  say  the 
best  plan  would  be  to  partition  aff  a  pairt  o'  the 
Home  for  female  geniuses. " 

"Would  Parliament  elect  the  members?" 

"Iwouldna  trust  them.  The  election  would 
hae  to  be  by  competitive  examination.  Na,  I 
canna  say  wha  would  draw  up  the  questions. 
The  scheme's  juist  growin'  i'  my  mind,  but  the 
mair  I  think  o't  the  better  I  like  it " 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

LEEBY    AND    JAMIE. 

BY  the  bank  of  the  Quharity  on  a  summer  day 
I  have  seen  a  barefooted  girl  gaze  at  the  running 
water  until  tears  filled'  her  eyes.  That  was  the 
birth  of  romance.  Whether  this  love  be  but  a 
beautiful  dream  I  cannot  say,  but  this  we  see, 
that  it  comes  to  all,  and  colors  the  whole  future 
life  with  gold.  Leeby  must  have  dreamed  it,  but 
I  did  not  know  her  then.  I  have  heard  of  a  man 
who  would  have  taken  her  far  away  into  a  county 
where  the  corn  is  yellow  when  it  is  still  green 
with  us,  but  she  would  not  leave  her  mother,  nor 
was  it  him  she  saw  in  her  dream.  From  her 
earliest  days,  when  she  was  still  a  child  stagger- 
ing round  the  garden  with  Jamie  in  her  arms,  her 
duty  lay  before  her,  straight  as  the  burying-ground 
road.  Jess  had  need  of  her  in  the  little  home  at 
the  top  of  the  brae,  where  God,  looking  down 
upon  her  as  she  scrubbed  and  gossiped  and  sat 
up  all  night  with  her  ailing  mother,  and  never 
missed  the  prayer-meeting,  and  adored  the  min- 
ister, did  not  perhaps  think  her  the  least  of 
His  hand-maids.  Her  years  were  less  than  thirty 


142  A  WINDOW  ftf  TtiRUMS. 

when  He  took  her  away,  but  she  had  few  days 
that  were  altogether  dark.  Those  who  bring  sun- 
shine to  the  lives  of  others  cannot  keep  it  from 
themselves. 

The  love  Leeby  bore  for  Jamie  was  such  thai 
in  their  younger  days  it  shamed  him.  Other 
laddies  knew  of  it,  and  flung  it  at  him  until  he 
dared  Leeby  to  let  on  in  public  that  he  and  she 
were  related. 

"  Hoo  is  your  lass  ?  "  they  used  to  cry  to  him, 
inventing  a  new  game. 

"  I  saw  Leeby  lookin'  for  ye,"  they  would  say  ; 
"she's  vvearyin'  for  ye  to  gang  an'  play  wi'  her." 

Then  if  they  were  not  much  bigger  boys  than 
himself,  Jamie  got  them  against  the  dyke  and  hit 
them  hard  until  they  publicly  owned  to  knowing 
that  she  was  his  sister,  and  that  he  was  not  fond 
of  her. 

"It  distressed  him  mair  than  ye  could  believe, 
though,"  Jess  has  told  me  ;  "  an'  when  he  came 
hame  he  would  greet  an'  say  'at  Leeby  disgraced 
him." 

Leeby,  of  course,  suffered  for  her  too  obvious 
affection. 

"  I  wonder  'at  ye  dinna  try  to  control  yersel'," 
Jamie  would  say  to  her,  as  he  grew  bigger. 

"'Am  sure,"  said  Leeby,  "I  never  gie  ye  a 
look  if  there's  onybody  there." 

"A  look  !  You're  aye  lookin'  at  me  sae  fond- 
like  'at  I  dinna  ken  what  wy  to  turn." 


A   WINDOW  IN  THRVMS.  143 

"Weel,  I  canna  help  it,"  said  Leeby,  probably 
beginning  to  whimper. 

If  Jamie  was  in  a  very  bad  temper  he  left  her, 
after  this,  to  her  own  reflections  ;  but  he  was 
naturally  soft-hearted. 

"  'Am  no  tellin'  ye  no  to  care  for  me,"  he  told 
her,  "but  juist  to  keep  it  mair  to  yersel. '  Nae- 
body  would  ken  frae  me  'at  'am  fond  o'  ye." 

"  Mebbe  yer  no  ?  "  said  Leeby. 

"Ay,  am  I,  but  I  can  keep  it  secret.  When 
we're  in  the  hoose  'am  juist  richt  fond  o'  ye." 

"  Do  ye  love  me,  Jamie  ?  " 

Jamie  waggled  his  head  in  irritation. 

"Love,"  he  said,  "is  an  awfu'-like  word  to  use 
when  fowk's  weel.  Ye  shouldna  spier  sic 
annoyin'  questions." 

"But  if  ye  juist  say  ye  love  me  I'll  never 
let  on  again  afore  fowk  'at  yer  onything  to  me 
ava. " 

"Ay,  ye  often  say  that." 

" Do  ye  no  believe  my  word?" 

"I  believe  fine  ye  mean  what  ye  say,  but  ye 
forget  yersel'  when  the  time  comes." 

"Juist  try  me  this  time." 

"Weel,  then,  I  do." 

"  Do  what?"  asked  the  greedy  Leeby. 

"  What  ye  said  " 

"I  said  love." 

"Weel,  "said  Jamie,  "I  do't" 

"What  do  ye  do ?     Say  the  word. " 


144  A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

"Na,"  said  Jamie,  "J  winna  say  the  word. 
It's  no  a  word  to  say,  but  I  do't." 

That  was  all  she  could  get  out  of  him,  unless 
he  was  stricken  with  remorse,  when  he  even  went 
the  length  of  saying  the  word. 

"Leebykent  perfectly  weel, "  Jess  has  said, 
'"at  it  was  a  trial  to  Jamie  to  tak  her  ony  gait, 
an'  I  often  used  to  say  to  her  'at  I  wonder  at  her 
want  o'  pride  in  priggin'  wi'  him.  Ay,  but  if  she 
could  juist  get  a  promise  wrung  oot  o'  him,  she 
didna  care  hoo  muckle  she  had  to  prig.  Syne 
they  quarrelled,  an'  ane  or  baith  o'  them  grat 
(cried)  afore  they  made  it  up.  I  mind  when 
Jamie  went  to  the  fishin'  Leeby  was  aye  terrible 
keen  to  get  wi'  him,  but  ye  see  he  couldna  be 
seen  gaen  through  the  toon  wi'  her.  '  If  ye  let 
me  gang,' she  said  to  him,  'I'll  no  seek  to  go 
through  the  toon  wi'  ye.  Na,  I'll  gang  roond  by 
the  roods  an'  you  can  tak  the  buryin'-ground 
road,  so  as  we  can  meet  on  the  hill.'  Yes,  Leeby 
was  willin'  to  agree  wi'  a'  that,  juist  to  get  gaen 
wi'  him.  I've  seen  lassies  makkin'  themsel's  sma' 
for  lads  often  enough,  but  I  never  saw  ane  'at 
prigged  so  muckle  wi'  her  ain  brother.  Na,  it's 
other  lassies'  brothers  they  like  as  a  rule." 

"  But  though  Jamie  was  terrible  reserved  aboot 
it,"  said  Leeby,  "he  was  as  fond  o'  me  as  ever  I 
was  o'  him.  Ye  mind  the  time  I  had  the  measles, 
mother?  ' 

'"Am  no  likely  to  forget  it,  Leeby,"  said  Jess, 


A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  145 

"an'  you  blind  wi'  them  for  three  days.  Ay,  ay, 
Jamie  was  richt  ta'en  up  aboot  ye.  I  mind  he 
broke  open  his  pirly  (money-box),  an'  bocht  a 
ha'penny  worth  o'  something  to  ye  every  day." 

"An'  ye  hinna  forgotten  the  stick?  " 

"'Deed  no,  I  hinna.  Ye  see,"  Jess  explained 
to  me,  "Leeby  was  lyin'  benthehoose,  an' Jamie 
wasna  allowed  to  gang  near  her  for  fear  o'  infec- 
tion. Weel,  he  got  a  lang  stick — it  was  a  pea- 
stick — an'  put  it  aneath  the  door  an'  waggled  it. 
Ay,  he  did  that  a  curran  times  every  day,  juist  to 
to  let  her  see  he  was  thinkin'  o'  her." 

"  Mair  than  that,"  said  Leeby,  "he  cried  oot  'at 
he  loved  me."  , 

"Ay,  but  juist  aince,"  Jess  said,  "  Idinnamind 
o't  but  aince.  It  was  the  time  the  doctor  came 
late,  an'  Jamie,  being  waukened  by  him,  thocht 
ye  was  deein'.  I  mind  as  if  it  was  yesterday  hoo 
he  cam'  runnin'  to  the  door  an'  cried  oot,  '  I  do 
love  ye,  Leeby  ;  I  love  ye  richt.'  The  doctor  got 
a  start  when  he  heard  the  voice,  but  he  laughed 
loud  when  he  un'erstood." 

"He  had  nae  business,  though,"  said  Leeby, 
"to  tell  onybody. " 

"He  was  a  rale  clever  man,  the  doctor,"  Jess 
explained  to  me,  "ay,  he  kent  me  as  weel  as 
though  he'd  gaen  through  me  wi'  a  lichted  candle. 
It  got  oot  through  him,  an'  the  young  billies  took 
to  sayin'  to  Jamie,  'Ye  do  love  her,  Jamie;  ay, 
ye  love  her  richt.'  The  only  reg'lar  fecht  I  ever 


146  A  WINDOW  Iff  THRUMS. 

kent  Jamie  hae  was  wi'  a  lad  'at  cried  that  to  him. 
It  was  Bowlegs  Chirsty's  laddie.  Ay,  but  when 
she  got  better  Jamie  blamed  Leeby. " 

"He  no  only  blamed  me,"  said  Leeby,  "but 
he  wanted  me  to  pay  him  back  a'  the  bawbees  he 
had  spent  on  me." 

"Ay,  an'  I  sepad  he  got  them  too,"  said  Jess. 

In  time  Jamie  became  a  barber  in  Tilliedrum, 
trudging  many  heavy  miles  there  and  back  twice 
a  day  that  he  might  sleep  at  home,  trudging 
bravely  I  was  to  say,  but  it  was  what  he  was 
born  to,  and  there  was  hardly  an  alternative. 
This  was  the  time  I  saw  most  of  him,  and  he  and 
Leeby  were  often  in  my  thoughts.  There  is  as 
terrible  a  bubble  in  the  little  kettle  as  on  the 
caldron  of  the  world,  and  some  of  the  scenes 
between  Jamie  and  Leeby  were  great  tragedies, 
comedies,  what  you  will,  until  the  kettle  was  taken 
off  the  fire.  Hers  was  the  more  placid  temper  ; 
indeed,  only  in  one  way  could  Jamie  suddenly 
rouse  her  to  fury.  That  was  when  he  hinted  that 
she  had  a  large  number  of  frocks.  Leeby  knew 
that  there  could  never  be  more  than  a  Sabbath 
frock  and  an  every-day  gown  for  her,  both  of  her 
mother's  making,  but  Jamie's  insinuations  were 
more  than  she  could  bear.  Then  I  have  seen  her 
seize  and  shake  him.  I  know  from  Jess  that 
Leeby  cried  herself  hoarse  the  day  Joey  was 
buried,  because  her  little  black  frock  was  not 
ready  for  wear. 


A   WINDOW  IN-  THRUMS.  147 

Until  he  went  to  Tilliedrum,  Jamie  had  been 
more  a  stay-at-home  boy  than  most  The  warmth 
of  Jess'  love  had  something  to  do  with  keeping 
his  heart  aglow,  but  more,  I  think,  he  owed  to 
Leeby.  Tilliedrum  was  his  introduction  to  the 
world,  and  fora  little  it  took  his  head.  I  was  in 
the  house  the  Sabbath  day  that  he  refused  to 
go  to  church. 

He  went  out  in  the  forenoon  to  meet  the  Tillie- 
drum lads,  who  were  to  take  him  off  for  a  holiday 
in  a  cart.  Hendry  was  more  wrathful  than  I 
remember  ever  to  have  seen  him,  though  I  have 
heard  how  he  did  with  the  lodger  who  broke  the 
Lord's  Day.  This  lodger  was  a  tourist  who 
thought,  in  folly  surely  rather  than  in  hardness  of 
heart,  to  test  the  religious  convictions  of  an  Auld 
Licht  by  insisting  on  paying  his  bill  on  a  Sab- 
bath morning.  He  offered  the  money  to  Jess, 
with  the  warning  that  if  she  did  not  take  it  now 
she  might  never  see  it.  Jess  was  so  kind  and 
good  to  her  lodgers  that  he  could  not  have  known 
her  long  who  troubled  her  with  this  poor  trick. 
She  was  sorely  in  need  at  the  time,  and  en- 
treated the  thoughtless  man  to  have  some  pity 
on  her. 

"Now  or  never,"  he  said,  holding  out  the 
money. 

"Put  it  on  the  dresser,"  said  Jess  at  last,  "an 
I'll  get  it  in  the  morn." 

The  few  shillings  were  laid  on  the  dresser, 


148  A    WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

where  they  remained    unfingered  until  Hendry, 
with  Leeby  and  Jamie,  came  in  from  church. 

"  What  siller's  that?  "  asked  Hendry,  and  then 
Jess  confessed  what  she  had  done. 

"I  wonder  at  ye,  woman,"  said  Hendry  sternly  ; 
and  lifting  the  money  he  climbed  up  to  the  attic 
with  it. 

He  pushed  open  the  door  and  confronted  th« 
lodger. 

"Take  back  yer  siller,"  he  said,  laying  it  on 
the  table,  "an'  leave  my  hoose.  Man,  you're  a 
pitiable  critter  to  tak  the  chance,  when  I  was 
oot,  o'  playin'  upon  the  poverty  o'  an  onweel 
woman." 

It  was  with  such  unwonted  severity  as  this  that 
Hendry  called  upon  Jamie  to  follow  him  to 
church  ;  but  the  boy  went  off,  and  did  not  re- 
turn till  dusk,  defiant  and  miserable.  Jess  had 
been  so  terrified  that  she  forgave  him  everything 
for  sight  of  his  face,  and  Hendry  prayed  for  him 
at  family  worship  with  too  much  unction.  But 
Leeby  cried  as  if  her  tender  heart  would  break. 
For  a  long  time  Jamie  refused  to  look  at  her,  but 
at  last  he  broke  down. 

"If  ye  go  on  like  that, "he said,  "I'll  gangawa 
oot  an'  droon  mysel',  or  be  a  sojer," 

This  was  no  uncommon  threat  of  his,  and 
sometimes,  when  he  went  off,  banging  the  door 
violently,  she  ran  after  him  and  brought  him 
back,  This  time  she  only  wept  the  more,  and  so 


A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  149 

both  went  to  bed  in  misery.  It  was  after  mid- 
night that  Jamie  rose  and  crept  to  Leeby's  bed- 
side. Leeby  was  shaking  the  bed  in  her  agony. 
Jess  heard  what  they  said. 

"Leeby,"  said  Jamie,  "dinna  greet,  an'  I'll 
never  do't  again. " 

He  put  his  arms  round  her,  and  she  kissed  him 
passionately. 

"  O  Jamie,"  she  said,  "hae  ye  prayed  to  God 
to  forgie  ye  ?  " 

Jamie  did  not  speak. 

"  If  ye  was  to  die  this  nicht, "  cried  Leeby,  "an' 
you  no  made  it  up  wi'  God,  ye  wouldna  gang  to 
heaven.  Jamie,  I  canna  sleep  till  ye've  made  it 
up  wi'  God." 

But  Jamie  still  hung  back.  Leeby  slipped  from 
her  bed  and  went  down  on  her  knees. 

"O  God,  O  dear  God,"  she  cried,  "mak  Jamie 
to  pray  to  you  1  " 

Then  Jamie  went  down  on  his  knees  too,  and 
they  made  it  up  with  God  together. 

This  is  a  little  thing  for  me  to  remember  all 
these  years,  and  yet  how  fresh  and  sweet  it  keeps 
Leeby  in  my  memory. 

Away  up  in  the  glen,  my  lonely  school-house 
lying  deep,  as  one  might  say,  in  a  sea  of  snow,  I 
had  many  hours  in  the  years  long  by  for  thinking 
of  my  friends  in  Thrums  and  mapping  out  the  fu- 
ture of  Leeby  and  Jamie.  I  saw  Hendry  and  Jess 
taken  to  the  churchyard,  and  Leeby  left  alone  in 


150  A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

the  house.  I  saw  Jamie  fulfil  his  promise  to  his 
mother,  and  take  Leeby,  that  stainless  young 
woman,  far  away  to  London,  where  they  -had  a 
home  together.  Ah,  but  these  were  only  the  idle 
dreams  of  a  dominie.  The  Lord  willed  it  other- 
wise. 


A   WMDOW  JN  THRUMS.  151 


CHAPTER  XIX 

A     TALE   OF    A     GLOVE. 

So  long  as  Jamie  was  not  the  lad,  Jess  twinkled 
gleefully  over  tales  of  sweethearting.  There  was 
little  Kitty  Lamby  who  used  to  skip  in  of  an  even- 
ing, and,  squatting  on  a  stool  near  the  window, 
unwind  the  roll  of  her  enormities.  A  wheedling 
thing  she  was,  with  an  ambition  to  drive  men 
crazy,  but  my  presence  killed  the  gossip  on  her 
tongue,  though  I  liked  to  look  at  her.  When  I 
entered,  the  wag-at-the-wa'  clock  had  again  pot- 
session  of  the  kitchen.  I  never  heard  more  than 
the  end  of  a  sentence  : 

"An'  did  he  really  say  he  would  fling  hims*T 
into  the  dam,  Kitty  ?  " 

Or — "  True  as  death,  Jess,  he  kissed  me." 

Then  I  wandered  away  from  the  kitchen, 
where  I  was  not  wanted,  and  marvelled  to  know 
that  Jess  of  the  tender  heart  laughed  most  merrily 
when  he  really  did  say  that  he  was  going  straight 
to  the  dam.  As  nobody  was  found  in  the  dam 
in  those  days,  whoever  he  was  he  must  hava 
thought  better  of  it 

But  let  Kitty,  or  any  other  maid,  ca«t  a  glinting 


'5* 


A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 


eye  on  Jamie,  then  Jess  no  longer  smiled.  If  he 
returned  the  glance  she  sat  silent  in  her  chair  till 
Leeby  laughed  away  her  fears. 

"Jamie's  no  the  kind,  mother,"  Leeby  would 
say.  "  Na,  he's  quiet,  but  he  sees  through  them. 
They  dinna  draw  his  leg  "  (get  over  him). 

"Ye  never  can  tell,  Leeby.  The  laddies  'at's 
maist  ill  to  get  sometimes  gangs  up  in  a  flame  a' 
at  aince,  like  a  bit  o'  paper." 

"Ay,  weel,  at  ony  rate  Jamie's  no  on  fire  yet." 

Though  clever  beyond  her  neighbors,  Jess  lost 
all  her  sharpness  if  they  spoke  of  a  lassie  for 
Jamie. 

"I  warrant,"  Tibbie  Birse  said  one  day  in  my 
hearing,  "'at  there's  some  leddy  in  London  he's 
thinkin'  o'.  Ay  he's  been  a  guid  laddie  to  ye, 
but  i'  the  coorse  o'  nature  he'll  be  settlin'  doon 
soon." 

Jess  did  not  answer,  but  she  was  the  picture  of 
woe. 

"  Ye're  lettin'  what  Tibbie  Birse  said  lie  on  yer 
mind,"  Leeby  remarked,  when  Tibbie  was  gone, 
"What  can  it  maitter  what  she  thinks?  " 

"  I  cannahelp  it,  Leeby,"  said  Jess.  "Na,  an' 
I  canna  bear  to  think  o'  Jamie  bein'  mairit.  It 
would  lay  me  low  to  loss  my  laddie.  No  yet,  no 
yet." 

"But,  mother,"  said  Leeby,  quoting  from  the 
minister  at  weddings,  "yewouldna  be  lossin'  a 
son,  but  juist  gainin'  a  dochter." 


A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  153 

"  Dinna  haver,  Leeby,"  answered  Jess,  "I  want 
nane  o'  thae  dochters  ;  na,  na." 

This  talk  took  place  while  we  were  still  await- 
ing Jamie's  coming.  He  had  only  been  with  us 
one  day  when  Jess  made  a  terrible  discovery. 
She  was  looking  so  mournful  when  I  saw  her,  that 
I  asked  Leeby  what  was  wrong. 

"She's  brocht  it  on  hersel',"  said  Leeby.  "  Ye 
see,  she  was  up  sune  i'  the  mornin'  to  begin  to 
the  darnin'  o'  Jamie's  stockin's  an'  to  warm  his 
sark  at  the  fire  afore  he  put  it  on.  He  woke  up, 
an'  cried  to  her  'at  he  wasna  accustomed  to  hae'n 
his  things  warmed  for  him.  Ay,  he  cried  it  oot 
fell  thrawn,  so  she  took  it  into  her  head  at  there 
was  something  in  his  pouch  he  didna  want  her  to 
see.  She  was  even  oneasy  last  nicht." 

I  asked  what  had  aroused  Jess'  suspicions  last 
night 

"Ou,  ye  would  notice  'at  she  sat  devourin' 
him  wi'  her  een,  she  was  so  lifted  up  at  hae'n  'im 
again.  Weel,  she  says  noo  'at  she  saw  'im  twa 
or  three  times  put  his  hand  in  his  pouch  as  if  he 
was  findin'  to  mak'  sure  'at  something  was  safe. 
So  when  he  fell  asleep  again  this  mornin'  she  got 
haud  o'  his  jacket  to  see  if  there  was  onything 
in't.  I  advised  her  no  to  do't,  but  she  couldna 
help  hersel'.  She  put  in  her  hand,  an'  pu't  it  oot. 
That's  what's  makkin'  her  look  sae  ill. " 

"  But  what  was  it  she  found  ?  " 

"Did  I  no  tell  ye?     I'm  ga'en  dottle,  I  think, 


154  4  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

It  was  a  glove,  a  woman's  glove,  in  a  bit  paper. 
Ay,  though  she's  sittin'  still  she's  near  frantic." 

I  said  I  supposed  Jess  had  put  the  glove  back 
in  Jamie's  pocket. 

"Na,"  said  Leeby,  "  'deed  no.  She  wanted  to 
fling  in  on  the  back  o'  the  fire,  but  I  wouldna  let 
her.  That's  it  she  has  aneath  her  apron." 

Later  in  the  day  I  remarked  to  Leeby  that 
Jamie  was  very  dull. 

"  He's  missed  it,"  she  explained. 

"Has  any  one  mentioned  it  to  him?"  I  asked, 
"  or  has  he  inquired  about  it  ? " 

"Na,"  said  Leeby,  "  there  hasna  been  a  syllup 
(syllable)  aboot  it.  My  mother's  fleid  to  men- 
tion't,  an'  he  doesna  like  to  speak  aboot  it  either." 

"  Perhaps  he  thinks  he  has  lost  it  ?  " 

"Nae,  fear  o' him,"  Leeby  said.  "  Na,  he 
kens  fine  wha'  has'L" 

I  never  knew  how  Jamie  came  by  the  glove, 
nor  whether  it  had  originally  belonged  to  her  who 
made  him  forget  the  window  at  the  top  of  the 
brae.  At  the  time  I  looked  on  as  at  play-acting, 
rejoicing  in  the  happy  ending.  Alas  1  in  the  real 
life  how  are  we  to  know  when  we  have  reached 
an  end? 

But  this  glove,  I  say,  may  not  have  been  that 
woman's,  and  if  it  was,  she  had  not  then  bedev- 
illed him.  He  was  too  sheepish  to  demand  it  back 
from  his  mother,  and  already  he  cared  for  it  too 
much  to  laugh  at  Jess'  theft  with  Leeby.  So  it 


A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  155 

was  that  a  curious  game  at  chess  was  played  with 
the  glove,  the  players  a  silent  pair. 

Jamie  cared  little  to  read  books,  but  on  the  day 
following  Jess'  discovery,  I  found  him  on  his 
knees  in  the  attic,  looking  through  mine.  A  little 
box,  without  a  lid,  held  them  all,  but  they  seemed 
a  great  library  to  him. 

"There's  readin'  for  a  lifetime  in  them,"  he  said 
"I  was  juist  takkin'  a  look  through  them." 

His  face  was  guilty,  however,  as  if  his  hand 
had  been  caught  in  a  money-bag,  and  I  wondered 
what  had  enticed  the  lad  to  my  books.  I  was 
still  standing  pondering  when  Leeby  ran  up  the 
stair ;  she  was  so  active  that  she  generally  ran, 
and  she  grudged  the  time  lost  in  recovering  her 
breath. 

"I'll  put  yer  books  richt,"  she  said,  making 
her  word  good  as  she  spoke.  "I  kent  Jamie 
had  been  ransackin'  up  here,  though  he  came 
up  rale  canny.  Ay,  ye  would  notice  he  was  in 
his  stockin'  soles." 

I  had  not  noticed  this,  but  I  remembered  now 
his  slipping  from  the  room  very  softly.  If  he 
wanted  a  book,  I  told  Leeby,  he  could  have  got 
it  without  any  display  of  cunning. 

"It's  no  a  book  he's  lookin' for, "she said,  "na, 
it's  his  glove. " 

The  time  of  day  was  early  for  Leeby  to  gossip, 
but  I  detained  her  for  a  moment 

"My  mother's  hodded  (hid)  it,"  she  explained, 


156  A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

"an*  he  winna  speir  nae  queistions.  But  he's 
lookin'  fort  He  was  ben  in  the  room  searchin' 
the  drawers  when  I  was  up  i'  the  toon  in  the  fore- 
noon.  Ye  see,  he  pretends  no  to  be  carin'  afore 
me,  an'  though  my  mother's  sittin'  sae  quiet-like 
at  the  window  she's  hearkenin'  a'  the  time.  Ay, 
an'  he  thocht  I  had  hod  it  up  here." 

But  where,  I  asked,  was  the  glove  hid  ? 

"  I  ken  nae  mair  than  yersel',"  said  Leeby.  '"  My 
mother's  gien  to  hoddin'  things.  She  has  a  place 
aneath  the  bed  whaur  she  keeps  the  siller,  an' 
she's  no  speakin'  aboot  the  glove  to  me  noo,  be- 
cause she  thinks  Jamie  an'  me's  in  comp  (com- 
pany). I  speired  at  her  whaur  she  hae  hod  it, 
but  she  juist  said,  '  What  would  I  be  doin'  hod- 
din't  ? '  She'll  never  admit  to  me  'at  she  hods  the 
siller  either." 

Next  day  Leeby  came  to  me  with  the  latest 
news. 

"  He's  found  it,"  she  said,  "ay,  he's  got  the 
iglove  again.  Ye  see,  what  put  him  on  the  wrang 
'  scent  was  a  notion  'at  I  had  put  it  some  gait. 
He  kent  'at  if  she'd  hod  it,  the  kitchen  maun  be 
the  place,  but  he  thocht  she'd  gien  it  to  me  to 
hod.  He  came  upon't  by  accident.  It  was 
aneath  the  paddin'  o'  her  chair." 

Here,  I  thought,  was  the  end  of  the  glove  in- 
cident, but  I  was  mistaken.  There  were  no  presses 
or  drawers  with  locks  in  the  house,  and  Jess  got 
hold  of  the  glove  again.  I  suppose  she  had  tea- 


A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  157 

soned  out  no  line  of  action.  She  merely  hated 
the  thought  that  Jamie  should  have  a  woman's 
glove  in  his  possession. 

"She  beats  a'  wi'  'cuteness,"  Leeby  said  to  me. 
"Jamie  didna  put  the  glove  back  in  his  pouch. 
Na,  hekensherower  weel  by  this  time.  She  was 
up,  though,  lang  afore  he  was  wauken,  an'  she 
gaed  almost  strecth  to  the  place  whaur  he  had 
hod  it.  I  believe  she  lay  waukin  a'  nicht  thinkin' 
oot  whaur  it  would  be.  Ay,  it  was  aneath  the 
mattress.  I  saw  her  hodden't  i'  the  back  o'  the 
drawer,  but  I  didna  let  on." 

I  quite  believed  Leeby  when  she  told  me  after- 
ward that  she  had  watched  Jamie  feeling  beneath 
the  mattress. 

"He  had  a  face,"  she  said,  "I  assure  ye,  he 
had  a  face,  when  he  discovered  the  glove  was 
gone  again." 

"He  maun  be  terrible  ta'en  up  aboot  it,"  Jess 
said  to  Leeby,  "or  he  wouldna  keep  it  aneath 
the  mattress. 

' '  Od, "  said  Leeby,  "it  was  yersel'  'at  drove  him 
to't" 

Again  Jamie  recovered  his  property,  and  again 
Jess  got  hold  of  it  This  time  he  looked  in  vain. 
I  learned  the  fate  of  the  glove  from  Leeby. 

"  Ye  mind  'at  she  keepit  him  hame  frae  the  kirk 
on  Sabbath,  because  he  had  a  cauld  ?  "  Leeby 
said.  "  Ay,  me  or  my  father  would  hae  a  gey  ill 
cauld  afore  she  would  let's  bide  at  hame  frae  the 


158  A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

kirk ;  but  Jamie's  different.  Weel,  mair  than 
aince  she's  been  near  speakin'  to  'im  aboot  the 
glove,  but  she  grew  fleid  aye.  She  was  sat 
terrified  there  was  something  in't. 

"  On  Sabbath,  though,  she  had  him  to  hersel', 
an'  he  wasna  so  bright  as  usual.  She  sat  wi'  the 
Bible  on  her  lap,  pretendin'  to  read,  but  a'  the 
time  she  was  talckin'  keeks  (glances)  at  him.  I 
dinna  ken  'at  he  was  broodin'  ower  the  glove,  but 
she  thocht  he  was,  an'  juist  afore  the  kirk  came 
oot  she  couldna  stand  it  nae  langer.  She  put  her 
hand  in  her  pouch,  an'  pu'd  oot  the  glove,  wi'the 
paper  round  it,  juist  as  it  had  been  when  she 
came  upon't. 

"  'That's  yours,  Jamie,'  she  said;  'it  was  ill- 
dune  o*  me  to  tak  it,  but  I  couldna  help  it.' 

"Jamie  put  oot  his  hand,  an'  syne  he  drew  it 
back.  'It's  no  a  thing  o'  nae  consequence, 
mother,'  he  said. 

"  'Wha  is  she,  Jamie? '  my  mother  said. 

"  He  turned  awa  his  heid — so  she  telt  me.  '  It's 
a  lassie  in  London,'  he  said,  'I  dinna  ken  her 
muckle.' 

"  '  Ye  maun  ken  her  weel,'  my  mother  persisted, 
'  to  be  carryin'  aboot  her  glove  ;  I'm  dootin'  yer 
gey  fond  o'  her,  Jamie  ? ' 

"  'Na,'  said  Jamie,  '  'am  no.  There's  no  nae- 
body  I  care  for  like  yersel',  mother. ' 

"  '  Ye  wouldna  carry  aboot  onything  o*  mine, 
Jamie,'  my  mother  said;  but  he  says,  "Oh, 


A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  159 

mother,  I  carry  aboot  yer  face  wi'  me  aye ;  an* 
sometimes  at  nicht  I  kind  o' greet  to  think  o'  ye.' 

"Ay,  after  that  I've  nae  doot  he  was  sittin'  wi' 
his  arms  aboot  her.  She  didna  tell  me  that,  but 
weel  he  kens  it's  what  she  likes,  an' she  mak's  nae 
pretence  o'  it's  no  bein'.  But  for  a'  he  said  an' 
did,  she  noticed  him  put  the  glove  back  in  his 
inside  pouch. 

"'It's  wrang  o'  me,  Jamie,' she  said,  'but  I 
canna  bear  to  think  o'  ye  carryin'  that  aboot  sac 
carefu'.  No,  I  canna  help  it' 

"Weel,  Jamie,  the  crittur,  took  it  oot  o'  his 
pouch,  an'  kind  o'  hesitated.  Syne  he  lays  't 
on  the  back  o'  the  fire,  an'  they  sat  thegither 
glowerin'  at  it. 

"  '  Noo,  mother,'  he  says,  'you're  satisfied,  are 
ye  no  ?  " 

"Ay,"  Leeby  ended  her  story,  "she  said  she 
was  satisfied.  But  she  saw  'at  he  laid  it  on  the 
fire  fell  fond-like," 


i6o  *  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE     LAST     NIGHT. 

"JuisT  another  sax  nichts,  Jamie,  "Jess  would 
say,  sadly.  "Juist  fower  nichts  noo,  an'  you'll 
be  awa."  Even  as  she  spoke  seemed  to  come  the 
last  night. 

The  last  night !  Reserve  slipped  unheeded  to 
the  floor.  Hendry  wandered  ben  and  but  the 
house,  and  Jamie  sat  at  the  window  holding  his 
mother's  hand.  You  must  walk  softly  now  if  you 
would  cross  that  humble  threshold.  I  stop  at  the 
door.  Then,  as  now,  I  was  a  lonely  man,  and 
when  the  last  night  came  the  attic  was  the  place 
for  me. 

This  family  affection,  how  good  and  beautiful 
it  is !  Men  and  maids  love,  and  after  many 
years  they  may  rise  to  this.  It  is  the  grand  proof 
of  the  goodness  in  human  nature,  for  it  means 
that  the  more  we  see  of  each  other  the  more  we 
find  that  is  lovable.  If  you  would  cease  to  dislike 
a  man,  try  to  get  nearer  his  heart. 

Leeby  had  no  longer  any  excuse  for  bustling 
about.  Everything  was  ready — too  soon.  Hendry 


i   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  161 

had  been  to  the  fish-cadger  in  the  square  to  get 
a  bervie  for  Jamie's  supper,  and  Jamie  had  eaten 
it,  trying  to  look  as  if  it  made  him  happier.  His 
little  box  was  packed  and  strapped,  and  stood 
terribly  conspicuous  against  the  dresser.  Jess 
had  packed  it  herself. 

"Ye  mauna  trachle  (trouble)  yersel',  mother," 
Jamie  said,  when  she  had  the  empty  box  pulled 
toward  her. 

Leeby  was  wiser. 

"  Let  her  do't,"  she  whispered,  "it'll  keep  her 
frae  broodin'." 

Jess  tied  ends  of  yarn  round  the  stockings  to 
keep  them  in  a  little  bundle  by  themselves.  So 
she  did  with  all  the  other  articles. 

"No  'at  it's  ony  great  affair,"  she  said,  for  on 
the  last  night  they  were  all  thirsting  to  do  some- 
thing for  Jamie  that  would  be  a  great  affair  to 
him. 

"  Ah,  ye  would  wonder,  mother,"  Jamie  said, 
"  when  I  open  my  box  an  find  a'thing  tied  up  wi' 
strings  sae  careful,  it  a'  comes  back  to  me  wi'  a 
rush  wha  did  it,  an'  'am  as  fond  o'  thae  strings  as 
though  they  were  a  grand  present.  There's  the 
pocky  (bag)  ye  gae  me  to  keep  sewin'  things  in. 
I  get  the  wifie  I  lodge  wi'  to  sew  to  me,  but  often 
when  I  come  upon  the  pocky  I  sit  an'  look 
at  it." 

Two  chairs  were  backed  to  the  fire,  with  under- 
clothing hanging  upside  down  on  them.  From 
II 


162  A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

the  string  over  the  fireplace  dangled  two  pairs  of 
much-darned  stockings. 

"Ye'll  put  on  baith  thae  pair  o'  stockin's, 
Jamie,"  said  Jess,  "juist  to  please  me?" 

When  he  arrived  he  had  rebelled  against  the 
•xtra  clothing. 

"Ay,  will  I,  mother  !  "  he  said  now. 

Jess  put  her  hand  fondly  through  his  ugly  hair. 
How  handsome  she  thought  him  ! 

"  Ye  have  a  fine  brow,  Jamie,"  she  said.  "  I 
mind  the  day  ye  was  born  sayin'  to  mysel'  'at  ye 
had  a  fine  brow." 

"But  ye  thocht  he  was  to  be  a  lassie,  mother/' 
said  Leeby. 

"Na,  Leeby,  I  didna.  I  kept  sayin' I  thocht 
he  would  be  a  lassie  because  I  was  fleid  he  would 
be  ;  but  a'  the  time  I  had  a  presentiment  he 
would  be  a  laddie.  It  was  wi' Joey  deein'  sae 
sudden,  an'  I  took  on  sae  terrible  aboot  'im  'at 
I  thocht  all  alang  the  Lord  would  give  me  an- 
other laddie. " 

"Ay,  I  wanted  'im  to  be  a  laddie  mysel'," 
said  Hendry,  "so  as  he  could  tak  Joey's 
place," 

Jess'  head  jerked  back  involuntarily,  and  Jamie 
may  have  felt  her  hand  shake,  for  he  said  in  a 
voice  out  of  Hendry's  hearing  : 

"  I  never  took  Joey's  place  wi'  ye,  mother." 

Jess  pressed  his  hand  tightly  in  her  two  worn 
palms,  but  she  did  not  speak. 


A   WIN  DO  W  IN  THR  UMS.  1 63 

"Jamie  was  richt  like  Joey  when  he  was  a 
bairn,"  Hendry  said. 

Again  Jess'  head  moved,  but  still  she  was 
silent. 

"They  were  sae  like,"  continued  Hendry,  "  'at 
often  I  called  Jamie  by  Joey's  name." 

Jess  looked  at  her  husband,  and  her  mouth 
opened  and  shut. 

"I  canna  mind  'at  you  ever  did  that?"  Hendry 
said. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Na,"said  Hendry,  "you  never  mixed  them 
up.  I  dinna  think  ye  ever  missed  Joey  sae  sair 
as  I  did. " 

Leeby  went  ben,  and  stood  in  the  room  in  the 
dark  ;  Jamie  knew  why. 

"I'll  just  gang  ben  an'  speak  to  Leeby  for  a 
meenute,"  he  said  to  his  mother;  "I'll  no  be 
lang. " 

"Ay,  do  that,  Jamie,"  said  Jess.  "What 
Leeby's  been  to  me  nae  tongue  can  tell.  Ye 
canna  bear  to  hear  me  speak,  I  ken,  o'  the  time 
when  Hendry  an'  me'll  be  awa,  but,  Jamie,  when 
that  time  comes  ye'll  no  forget  Leeby  ? " 

"I  winna,  mother,  I  winna,"  said  Jamie. 
"  There'll  never  be  a  roof  ower  me  'at's  no  hers 
too." 

He  went  ben  and  shut  the  door.  I  do  not  know 
what  he  and  Leeby  said.  Many  a  time  since 
their  earliest  youth  had  these  two  been  closeted 


i?4  A  MXDOW  Itf  THRUMS. 

together,  often  to  make  up  their  little  quarrels  in 
each  other's  arms.  They  remained  a  long  time 
in  the  room,  the  shabby  room  of  which  Jess  and 
Leeby  were  so  proud,  and  whatever  might  be 
their  fears  about  their  mother  they  were  not 
anxious  for  themselves.  Leeby  was  feeling  lusty 
and  well,  and  she  could  not  know  that  Jamie 
required  to  be  reminded  of  his  duty  to  the  folk  at 
home.  Jamie  would  have  laughed  at  the  notion. 
Yet  that  woman  in  London  must  have  been 
waiting  for  him  even  then.  Leeby,  who  was 
about  to  die,  and  Jamie,  who  was  to  forget  his 
mother,  came  back  to  the  kitchen  with  a  happy 
light  n  their  faces.  I  have  with  me  still  the 
look  of  love  they  gave  each  other  before  Jamie 
crossed  over  to  Jess. 

"Ye'll  gang  anower,  noo,  mother,"  Leeby  said, 
meaning  that  it  was  Jess'  bed-time. 

"No  yet,  Leeby,  "Jess  answered;  "I'll  sit  up 
till  the  readin's  ower. " 

"I  think  ye  should  gang,  mother,"  Jamie  said, 
"an*  I'll  come  an' sit  aside  ye  after  ye're  i'  yer 
bed." 

"Ay,  Jamie,  I'll  no  hae  ye  to  sit  aside  me  the 
morn's  nicht,  an'  hap  (cover)  me  wi'  the  claes." 

"  But  ye'll  gang  suner  to  yer  bed,  mother." 

"I  may  gang,  but  I  winna  sleep.  I'll  aye  be 
thinkin'  o'  ye  tossin'  on  the  sea.  I  pray  for  ye  a 
lang  time  ilka  nicht,  Jamie." 

"Ay,  I  ken." 


A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  165 

"An'  I  pictur'  ye  ilka  hour  o'  the  day.  Ye 
never  gang  hame  through  thae  terrible  streets  at 
nicht  but  I'm  thinkin'  o'  ye." 

"I  would  try  no  to  be  sae  sad,  mother,"  said 
Leeby.  "  We've  ha'en  a  richt  fine  time,  have  we 
no  ? " 

"It's  been  an  awfu'  happy  time,"  said  Jess. 
' '  We've  ha'en  a  pleasantness  in  oor  lives  'at  comes 
to  few.  I  ken  naebody  'at's  ha'en  sae  muckle 
happiness  one  wy  or  another." 

"It's  because  ye're  sae  guid,  mother,"  said 
Jamie. 

"Na,  Jamie,  'am  no  guid  ava.  It's  because 
my  fowk's  been  sae  guid,  you  an'  Hendry  an' 
Leeby  an'  Joey  when  he  was  livin'.  I've  got  a 
lot  mair  than  my  deserts." 

"We'll  juist  look  to  meetin'  next  year  again, 
mother.  To  think  o'  that  keeps  me  up  a'  the 
winter." 

"Ay,  if  it's  the  Lord's  will,  Jamie,  but  'am  gey 
dune  noo,  an'  Hendry 's  fell  worn  too." 

Jamie,  the  boy  that  he  was,  said,  "  Dinna 
speak  like  that,  mother,"  and  Jess  again  put  her 
hand  on  his  head. 

"Fine  I  ken,  Jamie,"  she  said,  " 'at  all  my  days 
on  this  earth,  be  they  short  or  lang,  I've  you  for 
a  staff  to  lean  on." 

Ah,  many  years  have  gone  since  then,  but  if 
Jamie  be  living  now  ke  has  still  those  words  to 
swallow. 


1 66  A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

By  and  by  Leeby  went  ben  for  the  Bible,  and 
put  it  into  Hendry's  hands.  He  slowly  turned 
over  the  leaves  to  his  favorite  chapter,  the  four- 
teenth of  John's  Gospel.  Always,  on  eventful 
occasions,  did  Hendry  turn  to  the  fourteenth  of 
John. 

"  Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled ;  ye  believe  in 
God,  believe  also  in  me. 

"In  my  Father's  house  are  many  mansions  ;  if 
it  were  not  so  I  would  have  told  you.  I  go  to 
prepare  a  place  for  you." 

As  Hendry  raised  his  voice  to  read  there  was  a 
great  stillness  in  the  kitchen.  I  do  not  know  that 
I  have  been  able  to  show  in  the  most  imperfect 
way  what  kind  of  man  Hendry  was.  He  was 
dense  in  many  things,  and  the  cleverness  that 
was  Jess'  had  been  denied  to  him.  He  had  less 
book-learning  than  most  of  those  with  whom  he 
passed  his  days,  and  he  had  little  skill  in  talk.  I 
have  not  known  a  man  more  easily  taken  in  by 
persons  whose  speech  had  two  faces.  But  a  more 
simple,  modest,  upright  man  there  never  was  in 
Thrums,  and  I  shall  always  revere  his  memory. 

"And  if  I  go  and  prepare  a  place  for  you,  I  will 
come  again,  and  receive  you  unto  myself ;  that 
where  I  am,  there  ye  may  be  also." 

The  voice  may  have  been  monotonous.  I  have 
always  thought  that  Hen  dry's  reading  of  the  Bible 
was  the  most  solemn  and  impressive  I  have  ever 
heard.  He  exulted  in  the  fourteenth  of  John, 


A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  t6y 

pouring  it  forth  like  one  whom  it  intoxicated  while 
he  read.  He  emphasized  every  other  word ;  it 
was  so  real  and  grand  to  him. 

We  went  upon  our  knees  while  Hen  dry  prayed, 
all  but  Jess,  who  could  not.  Jamie  buried  his 
face  in  her  lap.  The  words  Hendry  said  were 
those  he  used  every  night.  Some,  perhaps,  would 
have  smiled  at  his  prayer  to  God  that  we  be  not 
puffed  up  with  riches  nor  with  the  things  of  this 
world.  His  head  shook  with  emotion  while  he 
prayed,  and  he  brought  us  very  near  to  the  Throne 
of  Grace.  "Do  thou,  O  our  God,"  he  said,  in 
conclusion,  "spread  Thy  guiding  hand  over  him 
whom  in  Thy  great  mercy  Thou  hast  brought  to 
us  again,  and  do  Thou  guard  him  through  the 
perils  which  come  unto  those  that  go  down  to  the 
sea  in  ships.  Let  not  our  hearts  be  troubled, 
neither  let  them  be  afraid,  for  this  is  not  our  abid- 
ting  home,  and  may  we  all  meet  in  Thy  house, 
where  there  are  many  mansions,  and  where  there 
will  be  no  last  night.  Amen." 

It  was  a  silent  kitchen  after  that,  though  the 
lamp  burned  long  in  Jess'  window  By  its  meagre 
light  you  may  take  a  final  glance  at  the  little 
family  ;  you  will  never  see  them  together  again. 


1 68  A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

JESS      LEFT     ALONE. 

THERE  may  be  a  few  who  care  to  know  how  the 
lives  of  Jess  and  Hendry  ended.  Leeby  died  in 
the  back-end  of  the  year  I  have  been  speaking  of, 
and  as  I  was  snowed  up  in  the  school-house  at 
the  time,  I  heard  the  news  from  Gavin  Birse  too 
late  to  attend  her  funeral.  She  got  her  death  on 
the  commonty  one  day  of  sudden  rain,  when  she 
had  run  out  to  bring  in  her  washing,  for  the  ter- 
rible cold  she  woke  with  next  morning  carried  her 
off  very  quickly.  Leeby  did  not  blame  Jamie  for 
not  coming  to  her,  nor  did  I,  for  I  knew  that  even 
in  the  presence  of  death  the  poor  must  drag  their 
chains.  He  never  got  Hendry's  letter  with  the 
news,  and  we  know  now  that  he  was  already  in 
the  hands  of  her  who  played  the  devil  with  his 
life.  Before  the  spring  came  he  had  been  lost  to 
Jess. 

"Them  'at  as  got  sae  mony  blessin's  mairthan 
the  generality,"  Hendry  said  to  me  one  day,  when 
Craigiebuckle  had  given  me  a  lift  into  Thrums, 
"has  nae  shame  if  they  would  pray  aye  formair. 
The  Lord  has  gi'en  this  hoose  sae  muckle,  'at  to 


A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  169 

pray  for  mair  looks  like  no  bein'  thankfu'  for  what 
we've  got.  Ay,  but  I  canna  help  prayin'  to  Him 
'at  in  His  great  mercy  he'll  tak'  Jess  afore  me.  Noo 
'at  Leeby's  gone,  an'  Jamie  never  lets  us  hear  frae 
him,  I  canna  gulp  doon  the  thocht  o'  Jess  bein' 
left  alane. " 

This  was  a  prayer  that  Hendry  may  be  par- 
doned for  having  so  often  in  his  heart,  though  God 
did  not  think  fit  to  grant  it.  In  Thrums,  when  a 
weaver  died,  his  womenfolk  had  to  take  his  seat 
at  the  loom,  and  those  who,  by  reason  of  infirm- 
ities, could  not  do  so,  went  to  a  place,  the  name 
of  which,  I  thank  God,  I  am  not  compelled  to 
write  in  this  chapter.  I  could  not,  even  at  this 
day,  have  told  any  episodes  in  the  life  of  Jess  had 
it  ended  in  the  poor-house. 

Hendry  would  probably  have  recovered  from 
the  fever  had  not  this  terrible  dread  darkened  his 
intellect  when  he  was  still  prostrate.  He  was 
lying  in  the  kitchen  when  I  saw  him  last  in  life, 
and  his  parting  words  must  be  sadder  to  the 
reader  than  they  were  to  me. 

"  Ay,  richt  ye  are,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  had 
become  a  child's  ;  "I  hae  muckle,  muckle,  to  be 
thankfu'  for,  an'  not  the  least  in  'at  baith  me  an' 
Jess  has  aye  belonged  to  a  bural  society.  We  hae 
nae  cause  to  be  anxious  aboot  a'  thing  bein'  dune 
respectable  aince  we're  gone.  It  was  Jess  'at 
insisted  on  oor  joinin'  :  a'  the  wisest  things  I  ever 
did  I  was  put  up  to  by  her." 


tf6  A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

I  parted  from  Hendry,  cheered  by  the  doctor'^ 
report,  but  the  old  weaver  died  a  few  days  after- 
ward. His  end  was  mournful,  yet  I  can  recall  it 
now  as  the  not  unworthy  close  of  a  good  man's 
life.  One  night  poor  worn  Jess  had  been  helped 
ben  into  the  room,  Tibbie  Birse  having  under- 
taken to  sit  up  with  Hendry.  Jess  slept  for  the 
first  time  for  many  days,  and  as  the  night  was 
dying  Tibbie  fell  asleep  too.  Hendry  had  been 
better  than  usual,  lying  quietly,  Tibbie  said,  and 
the  fever  was  gone.  About  three  o'clock  Tibbie 
w,oke  and  rose  to  mend  the  fire.  Then  she  saw 
that  Hendry  was  not  in  his  bed. 

Tibbie  went  ben  the  house  in  her  stocking- 
soles,  but  Jess  heard  her. 

"What  is't,  Tibbie*?"  she  asked  anxiously. 

"  Ou,  it's  no  naething," Tibbie  said,  "he's  lyin' 
rale  quiet." 

Then  she  went  up  to  the  attic.  Hendry  was 
not  in  the  house. 

She  opened  the  door  gently  and  stole  out.  It 
was  not  snowing,  but  there  had  been  a  heavy  fall 
two  days  before,  and  the  night  was  windy.  A 
tearing  gale  had  blown  the  upper  part  of  the  brae 
clear,  and  from  T'nowhead's  fields  the  snow  was 
rising  like  smoke.  Tibbie  ran  to  the  farm  and 
woke  up  T'nowhead. 

For  an  hour  they  looked  in  vain  for  Hendry. 
At  last  some  one  asked  who  was  working  in 
Elshioner's  shop  all  night.  This  was  the  long 


A  WINDOW  ix  THRUMS.  i^t 

earthen-floored  room  in  which  Hendry's  loom 
stood  with  three  others. 

"  It'll  be  Sanders  Whamond  likely,"  T'nowhead 
said,  and  the  other  men  nodded. 

But  it  happened  that  T'nowhead's  Bell,  who 
had  flung  on  a  wrapper,  and  hastened  across  to 
sit  with  Jess,  heard  of  the  light  in  Elshioner's 
shop. 

"It's  Hendry,"  she  cried,  and  then  every  one 
moved  toward  the  workshop. 

The  light  at  the  diminutive,  yarn-covered 
window  was  pale  and  dim  ;  but  Bell,  who  was  at 
the  house  first,  could  make  the  most  of  a  cruizey's 
glimmer. 

"It's  him,"  she  said,  and  then,  with  swelling 
throat,  she  ran  back  to  Jess. 

The  door  of  the  workshop  was  wide  open,  held 
against  the  wall  by  the  wind.  T'nowhead  and 
the  others  went  in.  The  cruizey  stood  on  the 
little  window.  Hendry's  back  was  to  the  door, 
and  he  was  leaning  forward  on  the  silent  loom. 
He  had  been  dead  for  some  time,  but  his  fellow- 
workers  saw  that  he  must  have  weaved  for  nearly 
an  hour. 

So  it  came  about  that  for  the  last  few  months  of 
her  pilgrimage  Jess  was  left  alone.  Yet  I  may 
not  say  that  she  was  alone.  Jamie,  who  should 
have  been  with  her,  was  undergoing  his  own  or- 
deal far  away  ;  where,  we  did  not  even  know. 
But  though  the  poor-house  stands  in  Thrums, 


Jfa  4   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

where  all  may  see  it,  the  neighbors  did  not  think 
only  of  themselves. 

Than  Tammas  Haggart  there  can  scarcely  have 
been  a  poorer  man,  but  Tammas  was  the  first  to 
come  forward  with  offer  of  help.  To  the  day  of 
Jess'  death  he  did  not  once  fail  to  carry  her  water 
to  her  in  the  morning,  and  the  luxuriously  living 
men  of  Thrums,  in  those  present  days  of  pumps 
at  every  corner,  can  hardly  realize  what  that 
meant.  Often  there  were  lines  of  people  at  the 
well  by  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  each 
had  to  wait  his  turn.  Tammas  filled  his  own 
pitcher  an  pan,  and  then  had  to  take  his  place  at 
the  end  of  the  line  with  Jess'  pitcher  and  pan,  to 
wait  his  turn  again.  His  own  house  was  in  the 
Tenements,  far  from  the  brae  in  winter  time, 
but  he  always  said  to  Jess  it  was  "  naething 
ava. " 

Every  Saturday  old  Robbie  Angus  sent  a  bag 
of  sticks  and  shavings  from  the  saw-mill  by  his 
little  son  Rob,  who  was  afterwards  to  become  a 
man  for  speaking  about  at  nights.  Of  all  the 
friends  that  Jess  and  Hendry  had,  T'nowhead  was 
the  ablest  to  help,  and  the  sweetest  memory  I 
have  of  the  farmer  and  his  wife  is  the  delicate 
way  they  offered  it.  You  who  read  will  see  Jess 
wince  at  the  offer  of  charity.  But  the  poor  have 
fine  feelings  beneath  the  grime,  as  you  will  dis- 
cover if  you  care  to  look  for  them  ;  and  when 
Jess  said  she  would  bake  if  any  one  would  buy, 


A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  173 

you  would  wonder  to  hear  how  many  kindly  folk 
came  to  her  door  for  scones. 

She  had  the  house  to  herself  at  nights,  bu1 
Tibbie  Birse  was  with  her  early  in  the  morning, 
and  other  neighbors  dropped  in.  Not  for  long  did 
she  have  to  wait  the  summons  to  the  bettei 
home. 

"Na,"  she  said  to  the  minister,  who  has  told 
me  that  he  was  a  better  man  from  knowing  her, 
"my  thochts  is  no  nane  set  on  the  vanities  o'  the 
world  noo.  I  kenna  hoo  I  could  ever  hae  haen  sic 
an  ambeetion  to  hae  thae  stuff-bottomed  chairs." 

I  have  tried  to  keep  away  from  Jamie,  whom 
the  neighbors  sometimes  upbraided  in  her  pres- 
ence. It  is  of  him  you  who  read  would  like  to 
hear,  and  I  cannot  pretend  that  Jess  did  not  sit  at 
her  window  looking  for  him. 

"  Even  when  she  was  bakin',''  Tibbie  told  me, 
"  she  aye  had  an  eye  on  the  brae.  If  Jamie  had 
come  at  ony  time  when  it  was  licht  she  would 
hae  seen  'im  as  sune  as  he  turned  the  corner." 

"If  he  ever  comes  back,  the  sacket  (rascal)," 
T'nowhead  said  to  Jess,  "  we'll  show  'im  the  door 
gey  quick." 

Jess  just  looked,  and  all  the  women  knew  how 
she  would  take  Jamie  to  her  arms. 

We  did  not  know  of  the  London  woman  then, 
and  Jess  never  knew  of  her.  Jamie's  mother 
never  for  an  hour  allowed  that  he  had  become 
anything  but  the  loving  laddie  of  his  youth. 


^  WINtiOW  Jtt  THRVMS. 

"  I  ken  'im  ower  weel,"  she  always  said,  "my 
ain  Jamie." 

Toward  the  end  she  was  sure  he  was  dead.  I 
do  not  know  when  she  first  made  up  her  mind  to 
this,  or  whether  it  was  not  merely  a  phrase  for 
those  who  wanted  to  discuss  him  with  her.  I 
know  that  she  still  sat  at  the  window  looking  at 
the  elbow  of  the  brae. 

The  minister  was  with  her  when  she  died.  She 
was  in  her  chair,  and  he  asked  her,  as  was  his 
custom,  if  there  was  any  particular  chapter  which 
she  would  like  him  to  read.  Since  her  husband's 
death  she  had  always  asked  for  the  fourteenth  of 
John,  "  Hendry's  chapter/'  as  it  is  still  called 
among  a  very  few  old  people  in  Thrums.  This 
time  she  asked  him  to  read  the  sixteenth  chapter 
of  Genesis. 

"When  I  came  to  the  thirteenth  verse,"  the 
minister  told  me,  "'And  she  called  the  name  of 
the  Lord  that  spake  unto  her,  Thou  God  seest  me,' 
she  covered  her  face  with  her  two  hands,  and 
said,  '  Joey's  text,  Joey's  text.  Oh,  but  I  grudged 
ye  sair,  Joey.'" 

"I  shut  the  book,"  the  minister  said,  "when  I 
came  to  the  end  of  the  chapter,  and  then  I  saw 
that  she  was  dead.  It  is  my  belief  that  her  heart 
broke  one-and-twenty  years  ago, " 


A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  175 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

JAMIE'S    HOME-COMING. 

ON  i  summer  day,  when  the  sun  was  in  the 
weavers'  workshops,  and  bairns  hopped  solemnly 
at  the  game  of  palaulays,  or  gayly  shook  their 
bottles  of  sugarelly  water  into  a  froth,  Jamie  came 
back.  The  first  man  to  see  him  was  Hookey 
Crewe,  the  post. 

"When  he  came  frae  London,"  Hookey  said 
afterward  at  T'nowhead's  pig-sty,  "Jamie  used  to 
wait  for  me  at  Zoar,  i'  the  north  end  o'  Tilliedrum. 
He  carried  his  box  ower  the  market  muir,  an'  sat 
on't  at  Zoar,  waitin'  for  me  to  catch  'im  up.  Ay, 
the  day  afore  yesterday  me  an'  the  powny  was 
clatterin'  by  Zoar,  when  there  was  Jamie  standin' 
in  his  identical  place.  He  hadna  nae  box  to  sit 
upon,  an'  he  was  far  frae  bein'  weel  in  order,  but 
I  kent  'im  at  aince,  an'  I  saw  'at  he  was  waitin' 
for  me.  So  I  drew  up,  an'  waved  my  hand  to 
'im." 

"I  would  hae  drove  straucht  by  'im,"  said 
T'nowhead  ;  "them  'at  leaves  their  auld  mother 
to  want  doesna  deserve  a  lift." 

"Ay,  ye  say  that  sittin'  there,"  Hookey  said ; 


176  A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

"but,  lads,  I  saw  his  face,  an'  as  sure  as  death, 
it  was  sic  an'  awfu'  meeserable  face,  'at  I  couldna 
but  pu'  the  powny  up.  Weel,  he  stood  for  the 
space  o'  a  meenute  lookin'  straucht  at  me  as  if 
he  would  like  to  come  forrit  but  dauredna,  an' 
syne  he  turned  an'strided  awa  ower  the  muir  like 
a  huntit  thing.  I  sat  still  i'  the  cnrt,  an'  when  he 
was  far  awa  he  stoppit  an'  lookit  again,  but  a' 
my  cryin'  wouldna  bring  him  a  step  back,  an'  i' 
the  end  I  drove  on.  I've  thocht  since  syne  'at  he 
didna  ken  whether  his  fowk  was  livin'  or  deid, 
an'  was  fleid  to  speir." 

"He  didna  ken,"  said  T'nowhead,  "but  the 
faut  was  his  ain.  It's  ower  late  to  be  ta'en  up 
aboot  Jess  noo." 

"Ay,  ay,  T'nowhead,"  said  Hookey,  "it's  easy 
to  you  to  speak  like  that.  Ye  didna  see  his 
face." 

It  is  believed  that  Jamie  walked  from  Tillie- 
drum,  though  no  one  is  known  to  have  met  him 
on  the  road.  Some  two  hours  after  the  post  left 
him,  he  was  seen  by  old  Rob  Angus  at  the  saw- 
mill. 

"I  was  sawin'  awa  wi'  a'  my  micht,"  Rob  said, 
"an'  little  Rob  was  haudin'  the  booards,  for  they 
were  silly  bit  things,  when  something  made  me 
look  at  the  window.  It  couldna  hae  been  a  tap 
on't,  for  the  birds  has  used  me  to  that,  an'  it 
would  hardly  be  a  shadow,  for  little  Rob  didna 
look  up.  Whatever  it  was  I  stoppit  i'  the  middle 


A   WIND  OW  IN  THR  UMS.  i  7  7 

o'  a  booard,  an'  lookit  up,  an'  there  I  saw  Jamie 
McQumpha.  He  joukit  back  when  our  een  met, 
but  I  saw  him  weel  ;  ay,  it's  a  queer  thing  to  say, 
but  he  had  the  face  o'  a  man  'at  had  come  straucht 
frae  hell." 

"I  stood  starin'  at  the  window,"  Angus  con- 
tinued, "after  he'd  gone,  an'  Robbie  cried  oot 
to  ken  what  was  the  maiter  wi'  me.  Ay,  that 
brocht  me  back  to  mysel',  an'  I  hurried  oot  to 
look  for  Jamie,  but  he  wasna  to  be  seen.  That 
face  gae  me  a  turn." 

From  the  saw-mill  to  the  house  at  the  top  of  the 
brae,  some  may  remember,  the  road  is  up  the 
commonty.  I  do  not  think  any  one  saw  Jamie 
on  the  commonty,  though  there  were  those  to 
say  they  met  him. 

"  He  gae  me  sic  a  look,"  a  woman  said,  '"at 
I  was  fleid  an'  ran  hame,"  but  she  did  not  tell  the 
story  until  Jamie's  home-coming  had  become  a 
legend. 

There  were  many  women  hanging  out  their 
washing  on  the  commonty  that  day,  and  none  of 
them  saw  him.  I  think  Jamie  must  have  ap- 
proached his  old  home  by  the  fields,  and  probably 
he  held  back  until  gloaming. 

The  young  woman  who  was  now  mistress  of 
the  house  at  the  top  of  the  brae  both  saw  and 
spoke  with  Jamie. 

"Twaor  three  times,"  she  said,  "  I  had  seen 
a  man  walk  quick  up  the  brae  an'  by  the  door. 

12 


178  A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

It  was  gettin'  dark,  but  I  noticed  'at  he  was  short 
an'  thin,  an'  I  would  hae  said  he  wasna  nane 
weel  if  it  hadna  been  'at  he  gaed  by  at  sic  a  steek. 
He  didna  look  our  wy — at  least  no  when  he  was 
close  up,  an'  I  set  'im  doon  for  some  ga'en  aboot 
body.  Na,  I  saw  naething  aboot  'im  to  be  field 
at.' 

"The  aucht  o'clock  bell  was  ringin'  when  I 
saw  'im  to  speak  to.  My  twa-year-auld  bairn 
was  standin'  aboot  the  door,  an'  I  was  makkin' 
some  porridge  for  my  man's  supper  when  I  heard 
the  bairny  skirlin'.  She  came  runnin'  into  the 
hoose  an'  hung  i'  my  wrapper,  an'  she  was 
hingin'  there,  when  I  gaed  to  the  door  to  see 
what  was  wrang. 

"It  was  the  man  I'd  seen  passing  the  hoose. 
He  was  standin'  at  the  gate,  which,  as  a'  body 
kens,  is  but  sax  steps  frae  the  hoose,  an'  I  won- 
dered at  'im  neither  runnin'  awa  nor  comin'  forrit 
I  speired  at  'im  what  he  meant  by  terrifyin'  a 
bairn,  but  he  didna  say  naething.  He  just  stood. 
It  was  ower  dark  to  see  his  face  richt,  an'  I  wasna 
nane  ta'en  aback  yet,  no  till  he  spoke.  Oh,  but 
he  had  a  fearsome  word  when  he  did  speak.  It 
was  a  kind  o'  like  a  man  hoarse  wi'  a  cauld,  an' 
yet  no  that  either." 

"  Wha  bides  i'  this  hoose  ? "  he  said,  aye  standin' 
there. 

"It's  Davit  Patullo's  hoose,"  I  said,  "an'  'am 
the  wife" 


A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  179 

"  Whaur's  Hendry  McQumpha  ?  "  he  speired. 

"He's  deid,"  I  said. 

He  stood  still  for  a  fell  while. 

"An'  his  wife,  Jess?"  he  said. 

"She's  deid,  too,"  I  said. 

I  thocht  he  gae  a  groan,  but  it  may  hae  been 
the  gate. 

"  There  was  a  dochter,  Leeby  ?  "  he  said. 

"Ay,"  I  said,  "she  was  ta'en  first.' 

"I  saw  'im  put  up  his  hands  to  his  face,  an' 
he  cried  oot,  '  Leeby  too  ! '  an'  syne  he  kind  o' 
fell  agin  the  dyke.  I  never  kent  'im  nor  nane  o' 
his  fowk,  but  I  had  heard  aboot  them,  an'  I  saw 
'at  it  would  be  the  son  frae  London.  It  wasna 
for  me  to  judge  'im,  an'  I  said  to  'im  would  he  no 
come  in  by  an'  tak'  a  rest.  I  was  nearer  'im  by 
that  time,  an'  it's  an  awfu'  haver  to  say  'at  he 
had  a  face  to  frichten  fowk.  It  was  a  rale  guid 
face,  but  no  ava  what  a  body  would  like  to  see 
on  a  young  man.  I  felt  mair  like  greetin'  mysel' 
when  I  saw  his  face  than  drawin'  awa  frae  'im. 

" But  he  wouldna  come  in.  'Rest,'  he  said, 
like  ane  speakin'  to  'imsel',  '  'na,  there's  nae  mair 
rest  for  me.'  I  didna  weel  ken  what  mair  to  say 
to  'im,  for  he  aye  stood  on,  an'  I  wasna  even 
sure  'at  he  saw  me.  He  raised  his  heid  when  he 
heard  me  tellin*  the  bairn  no  to  tear  my  wrapper. 

"  'Dinna  set  yer  heart  ower  muckle  on  that 
bairn,'  he  cried  oot,  sharp  like.  '  I  was  aince 
like  her,  an'  I  used  to  hing  aboot  my  mother,  too» 


180  A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

in  that  very  roady.  Ay,  I  thocht  I  was  fond  o' 
her,  an'  she  thocht  it  too.  Tak'  a  care,  wuman, 
'at  that  bairn  doesna  grow  up  to  murder  ye.' 

"He  gae  a  lauch  when  he  saw  me  tak'  haud  o' 
the  bairn,  an'  syne  a'  at  aince  he  gaed  awa  quick. 
But  he  wasna  far  doon  the  brae  when  he  turned 
an'  came  back. 

"'Ye'll,  mebbe,  tell  me,'  he  said,  richt  low, 
'if  ye  hae  the  furniture  'at  used  to  be  my 
mother's  ? ' 

"'Na,'  I  said,  'it  was  roupit,  an'  I  kenna 
whaur  the  things  gaed,  for  me  an'  my  man 
comes  frae  Tilliedrum.' 

"  'Ye  wouldna  hae  heard,'  he  said,  '  wha  got 
the  muckle  airm-chair  'at  used  to  sit  i'  the  kitchen 
:'  the  window  'at  looks  ower  the  brae?' 

"  'I  couldna  be  sure,'  I  said,  'but  there  was 
an  airm-chair  'at  gaed  to  Tibbie  Birse.  If  it  was 
the  ane  ye  mean,  it  a'  gaed  to  bits,  an'  I  think  they 
burned  it.  It  was  gey  dune.' 

"  'Ay,'  he  said,  'it  was  gey  dune.' 

"' There  was  the  chairs  ben  i'  the  room,'  he 
said  after  a  while. 

.  "  I  said  I  thocht  Sanders  Elshioner  had  got 
them  at  a  bargain,  because  twa  o'  them  was 
mended  wi'  glue,  an'  gey  silly. 

'"Ay,  that's  them,' he  said,  "they  were  richt 
neat  mended.  It  was  my  mother  'at  glued  them. 
I  mind  o'  her  makkin'  the  glue,  an'  warnin'  me 
an'  my  father  no  to  sit  on  them.  There  was  the 


A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  iSl 

clock  too,  an*  the  stool  'at  my  mother  got  oot  an' 
into  her  bed  wi',  an'  the  basket  'at  Leeby  carried 
when  she  gaed  the  errands.  The  straw  was  aff 
the  handle,  an'  my  father  mended  it  wi'  strings.' 

"'I  dinna  ken,' I  said,  'whaur  nane  o'  thae 
gaed  ;  but  did  yer  mother  hae  a  staff  ? " 

" 'A  little  staff/ he  said;  'it  was  near  black 
wi'  age.  She  couldna  gang  frae  the  bed  to  her 
chair  withoot  it.  It  was  broadened  oot  at  the 
foot  wi'  her  leanin'  on't  sae  muckle. ' 

"  '  I've  heard  tell,'  I  said,  '  'at  the  dominie  up i* 
Glen  Quharity  took  awa  the  staff/ 

"  He  didna  speir  for  nae  other  thing.  He  had 
the  gate  in  his  hand,  but  I  dinna  think  he  kent 
'at  he  was  swingin'  't  back  an'  forrit.  At  last  he 
let  it  go. 

' '  '  That's  a', '  he  said,  '  I  maun  awa.  Good- 
nicht'  an'  thank  ye  kindly. ' 

' '  I  watched  'im  till  he  gaed  oot  o'  sicht.  He 
gaed  doon  the  brae." 

We  learned  afterward  from  the  grave-digger 
that  some  one  spent  great  part  of  that  night  in  the 
graveyard,  and  we  believe  it  to  have  been  Jamie. 
He  walked  up  the  glen  to  the  school-house  next 
forenoon,  and  I  went  out  to  meet  him  when  I  saw 
him  coming  down  the  path. 

"Ay,"  he  said,  " it's  me  come  back." 

I  wanted  to  take  him  into  the  house  and  speak 
with  him  of  his  mother,  but  he  would  not  cross  the 
threshold. 


1 82  A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

"  I  came  oot,"  he  said,  "  to  see  if  ye  would  gie 
me  her  staff — no  'at  I  deserve  *t." 

I  brought  out  the  staff  and  handed  it  to  him, 
thinking  that  he  and  I  would  soon  meet  again. 
As  he  took  it  I  saw  that  his  eyes  were  sunk  back 
into  his  head.  Two  great  tears  hung  on  his 
eyelids,  and  his  mouth  closed  in  agony.  He 
stared  at  me  till  the  tears  fell  upon  his  cheeks,  and 
then  he  went  away. 

That  evening  he  was  seen  by  many  persons 
crossing  the  square.  He  went  up  the  brae  to  his 
old  home,  and  asked  leave  to  go  through  the 
house  for  the  last  time.  First  he  climbed  up  into 
the  attic,  and  stood  looking  in,  his  feet  still  on  the 
stair.  Then  he  came  down  and  stood  at  the  door 
of  the  room,  but  he  went  into  the  kitchen. 

"  I'll  ask  one  last  favor  o'  ye,"  he  said  to  the 
woman  :  "I  would  like  ye  to  leave  me  here  alane 
for  juist  a  little  while." 

"I  gaed  oot,"  the  women  said,  "meanin'  to 
leave  'im  to  'imsel',  but  my  bairn  wouldna  come, 
an'  he  said,  'Never  mind  her,'  so  I  left  her  wi' 
'im,  an'  closed  the  door.  He  was  in  a  langtime, 
but  I  never  kent  what  he  did,  for  the  bairn  juist 
aye  greets  when  I  speir  at  her. 

"I  watched  'im  frae  the  corner  window  gang 
doon  the  brae  till  he  came  to  the  corner.  I 
thocht  he  turned  round  there  an'  stood  lookin'  at 
the  hoose.  He  would  see  me  better  than  I  saw 
him,  for  my  lamp  was  i'  the  window,  whaur  I've 


A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS.  T?3 

heard  tell  his  mother  keepit  her  cruizey.  When 
my  man  came  in  I  speired  at  'im  if  he'd  seen 
onybody  standin'  at  the  corner  o'  the  brae,  an'  he 
said  he  thocht  he'd  seen  somebody  wi'  a  little 
staff  in  his  hand.  Davit  gaed  doon  to  see  if  he 
was  aye  there  after  supper-time,  but  he  was  gone." 
Jamie  was  never  again  seen  in  Thrums. 


CHAPTER  L 

MATRIMONY  AND  SMOKING  COMPARED. 

THE  circumstances  in  which  I  gave  up  smok- 
ing were  these  : 

I  was  a  mere  bachelor,  drifting  toward  what  I 
now  see  to  be  a  tragic  middle  age.  I  had  become 
so  accustomed  to  smoke  issuing  from  my  mouth 
that  I  felt  incomplete  without  it ;  indeed,  the 
time  came  when  I  could  refrain  from  smoking  if 
doing  nothing  else,  but  hardly  during  the  hours 
of  toil.  To  lay  aside  my  pipe  was  to  find  myself 
soon  afterward  wandering  restlessly  round  my 
table.  No  blind  beggar  was  ever  more  abjectly 
led  by  his  dog,  or  more  loath  to  cut  the  string. 

I  am  much  better  without  tobacco,  and  already 
have  difficulty  in  sympathizing  with  the  man  I 
used  to  be.  Even  to  call  him  up,  as  it  were,  and 
regard  him  without  prejudice  is  a  difficult  task, 
for  we  forget  the  old  selves  on  whom  we  have 
turned  our  backs,  as  we  forget  a  street  that  has 
been  reconstructed.  Does  the  freed  slave  always 
shiver  at  the  crack  of  a  whip  ?  I  fancy  not,  for 
I  recall  but  dimly,  and  without  acute  suffering, 
184 


MY  LADY  NICOTINE.  185 

the  horrors  of  my  smoking  days.  There  were 
nights  when  I  awoke  with  a  pain  at  my  heart 
that  made  me  hold  my  breath.  I  did  not  dare 
move.  After  perhaps  ten  minutes  of  dread,  I 
would  shift  my  position  an  inch  at  a  time.  Less 
frequently  I  felt  this  sting  in  the  daytime,  and 
believed  I  was  dying  while  my  friends  were  talk- 
ing to  me.  I  never  mentioned  these  experiences 
to  a  human  being ;  indeed,  though  a  medical 
man  was  among  my  companions,  I  cunningly 
deceived  him  on  the  rare  occasions  when  he  ques- 
tioned me  about  the  amount  of  tobacco  I  was 
consuming  weekly.  Often  in  the  dark  I  not  only 
vowed  to  give  up  smoking,  but  wondered  why  I 
cared  for  it.  Next  morning  I  went  straight  from 
breakfast  to  my  pipe,  without  the  smallest  strug- 
gle with  myself.  Latterly  I  knew,  while  resolv- 
ing to  break  myself  of  the  habit,  that  I  would  be 
better  employed  trying  to  sleep.  I  had  elaborate 
ways  of  cheating  myself,  but  it  became  disagree- 
able to  me  to  know  how  many  ounces  of  tobacco 
I  was  smoking  weekly.  Often  I  smoked  ciga- 
rettes to  reduce  the  number  of  my  cigars. 

On  the  other  hand,  if  these  sharp  pains  be  ex- 
cepted,  I  felt  quite  well.  My  appetite  was  as 
good  as  it  is  now,  and  I  worked  as  cheerfully  and 
certainly  harder.  To  some  slight  extent,  I  believe, 
I  experienced  the  same  pains  in  my  boyhood, 
before  I  smoked,  and  I  am  not  an  absolute  stranger 
to  them  yet.  They  were  most  frequent  in  my 
smoking  days,  but  I  have  no  other  reason  for 
charging  them  to  tobacco.  Possibly  a  doctor 
who  was  himself  a  smoker  would  have  pooh- 
poohed  them.  Nevertheless,  I  have  lighted  my 
pipe,  and  then,  as  I  may  say,  hearkened  for  them. 
At  the  first  intimation  that  they  were  coming  I 


i86  MY  LADY  NICOTINE. 

laid  the  pipe  down  and  ceased  to  smoke — until 
they  had  passed. 

I  will  not  admit  that,  once  sure  it  was  doing 
me  harm,  I  could  not,  unaided,  have  given  up 
tobacco.  But  I  was  reluctant  to  make  sure.  I 
should  like  to  say  that  I  left  off  smoking  because 
I  considered  it  a  mean  form  of  slavery,  to  be  con- 
demned for  moral  as  well  as  physical  reasons  ; 
but  though  now  I  clearly  see  the  folly  of  smoking, 
I  was  blind  to  it  for  some  months  after  I  had 
smoked  my  last  pipe.  I  gave  up  my  most  de- 
lightful solace,  as  I  regarded  it,  for  no  other 
reason  than  that  the  lady  who  was  willing  to 
fling  herself  away  on  me  said  that  I  must  choose 
between  it  and  her.  This  deferred  our  marriages 
for  six  months. 

I  have  now  come,  as  those  who  read  will  see, 
to  look  upon  smoking  with  my  wife's  eyes.  My 
old  bachelor  friends  complain  because  I  do  not 
allow  smoking  in  the  house,  but  I  am  always 
ready  to  explain  my  position,  and  I  have  not  an 
atom  of  pity  for  them.  If  I  cannot  smoke  here 
neither  shall  they.  When  I  visit  them  in  the  old 
inn  they  take  a  poor  revenge  by  blowing  rings  of 
smoke  almost  in  my  face.  This  ambition  to 
blow  rings  is  the  most  ignoble  known  to  man. 
Once  I  was  a  member  of  a  club  for  smokers, 
where  we  practiced  blowing  rings.  The  most 
successful  got  a  box  of  cigars  as  a  prize  at  the  end 
of  the  year.  Those  were  days  !  Often  I  think 
wistfully  of  them.  We  met  in  a  cozy  room  off 
the  Strand.  How  well  I  can  picture  it  still. 
Time-tables  lying  everywhere,  with  which  we 
could  light  our  pipes.  Some  smoked  clays,  but 
for  the  Arcadia  Mixture  give  me  a  brier.  My  brier 
was  the  sweetest  ever  known.  It  is  strange  now 


My  LAD  y  NICO  TINE.  187 

to  recall  a  time  when  a  pipe  seemed  to  be  my 
best  friend. 

My  present  state  is  so  happy  that  I  can  only 
look  back  with  wonder  at  my  hesitation  to  enter 
upon  it.  Our  house  was  taken  while  I  was  still 
arguing  that  it  would  be  dangerous  to  break  my- 
self of  smoking  all  at  once.  At  that  time  my 
ideal  of  married  life  was  not  what  it  is  now,  and 
I  remember  Jimmy's  persuading  me  to  fix  on  this 
house,  because  the  large  room  upstairs  with  the 
three  windows  was  a  smoker's  dream.  He  pict- 
ured himself  and  me  there  in  the  summer-time 
blowing  rings,  with  our  coats  off  and  our  feet  out 
at  the  windows ;  and  he  said  that  the  closet  at 
the  back  looking  on  to  a  blank  wall  would  make 
a  charming  drawing-room  for  my  wife.  For  the 
moment  his  enthusiasm  carried  me  away,  but  I 
see  now  how  selfish  it  was,  and  I  have  before  me 
the  face  of  Jimmy  when  he  paid  us  his  first  visit 
and  found  that  the  closet  was  not  the  drawing- 
room.  Jimmy  is  a  fair  specimen  of  a  man,  not 
without  parts,  destroyed  by  devotion  to  his  pipe. 
To  this  day  he  thinks  that  mantel-piece  vases  are 
meant  for  holding  pipe-lights  in.  We  are  almost 
certain  that  when  he  stays  with  us  he  smokes  in 
his  bedroom — a  detestable  practice  that  I  cannot 
permit. 

Two  cigars  a  day  at  ninepence  a  piece  come  to 
£27  73.  6d.  yearly,  and  four  ounces  of  tobacco 
a  week  at  nine  shillings  a  pound  come  to  £5  iys. 
yearly.  That  makes  £$$  45.  6d.  When  we  cal- 
culate the  yearly  expense  of  tobacco  in  this  way, 
we  are  naturally  taken  aback,  and  our  extrava- 
gance shocks  us  more  after  we  have  considered 
how  much  more  satisfactorily  the  money  might 
have  been  spent.  With  £$$  43.  6d.  you  can  buy 


i88  MY  LAD  Y  NICO TINE. 

new  Oriental  rugs  for  the  drawing-room,  as  well 
as  a  spring  bonnet  and  a  nice  dress.  These  are 
things  that  give  permanent  pleasure,  whereas  you 
have  no  interest  in  a  cigar  after  flinging  away  the 
stump.  Judging  by  myself,  I  should  say  that  it 
was  want  of  thought  rather  than  selfishness  that 
makes  heavy  smokers  of  so  many  bachelors. 
Once  a  man  marries,  his  eyes  are  opened  to  many 
things  that  he  was  quite  unaware  of  previously, 
among  them  being  the  delight  of  adding  an 
article  of  furniture  to  the  drawing-room  every 
month,  and  having  a  bedroom  in  pink  and  gold, 
the  door  of  which  is  always  kept  locked.  If  men 
would  only  consider  that  every  cigar  they  smoke 
would  buy  part  of  a  new  piano-stool  in  terra-^otta 
plush,  and  that  for  every  pound  tin  of  tobacco 
purchased  away  goes  a  vase  for  growing  dead 
geraniums  in,  they  would  surely  hesitate.  They 
do  not  consider,  however,  until  they  marry,  and 
then  they  are  forced  to  it.  For  my  own  part,  I  fail 
to  see  why  bachelors  should  be  allowed  to  smoke 
as  much  as  they  like,  when  we  are  debarred  from 
;t 

The  very  smell  of  tobacco  is  abominable,  for 
one  cannot  get  it  out  of  the  curtains,  and  there  is 
little  pleasure  in  existence  unless  the  curtains  are 
all  right.  As  for  a  cigar  after  dinner,  it  only 
makes  you  dull  and  sleepy  and  disinclined  for 
ladies,  society.  A  far  more  delightful  way  of 
spending  the  evening  is  to  go  straight  from  dinner 
to  the  drawing-room  and  have  a  little  music.  It 
calms  the  mind  to  listen  to  your  wife's  niece  sing- 
ing, "Oh,  that  we  two  were  Maying  !  "  Even  if 
you  are  not  musical,  as  is  the  case  with  me,  there 
is  a  great  deal  in  the  drawing-room  to  refresh 
you.  There  are  the  Japanese  fans  on  the  wall, 


MY  LAD  Y  NICOTINE.  189 

which  are  things  of  beauty,  though  your  artistic 
taste  may  not  be  sufficiently  educated  to  let  you 
know  it  except  by  hearsay  :  and  it  is  pleasant  to 
feel  that  they  were  bought  with  money  which,  in 
the  foolish  old  days,  would  have  been  squandered 
on  a  box  of  cigars.  In  like  manner  every  pretty 
trifle  in  the  room  reminds  you  how  much  wiser 
you  are  now  than  you  used  to  be.  It  is  even 
gratifying  to  stand  in  summer  at  the  drawing- 
room  window  and  watch  the  very  cabbies  pass- 
ing with  cigars  in  their  mouths.  At  the  same 
time,  if  I  had  the  making  of  the  laws  I  would  pro- 
hibit people's  smoking  in  the  street.  If  they  are 
married  men,  they  are  smoking  drawing-room 
fire-screens  and  mantel-piece  borders  for  the  pink- 
and-gold  room.  If  they  are  bachelors,  it  is  a 
scandal  that  bachelors  should  get  the  best  of 
everything. 

Nothing  is  more  pitiable  than  the  way  som« 
men  of  my  acquaintance  enslave  themselves  to 
tobacco. 

Nay,  worse,  they  make  an  idol  of  some  one 
particular  tobacco.  I  know  a  man  who  considers 
a  certain  mixture  so  superior  to  all  others  that 
he  will  vwilk  three  miles  for  it  Surely  every 
one  will  admit  that  this  is  lamentable.  It  is  not 
even  a  good  mixture,  for  I  used  to  try  it  occasion- 
ally ;  and  if  there  is  one  man  in  London  who 
knows  tobaccoes,  it  is  myself.  There  is  only  one 
mixture  in  London  deserving  the  adjective  superb. 
I  will  not  say  where  it  is  to  be  got,  for  the  result 
would  certainly  be  that  many  foolish  men  would 
smoke  more  than  ever ;  but  I  never  knew  any- 
thing to  compare  to  it.  It  is  deliciously  mild  yet 
full  of  fragrance,  and  it  never  burns  the  tongue. 
If  you  try  it  once  you  smoke  it  ever  afterward. 


190 


MY  LADY  NICOTINE. 


It  clears  the  brain  and  soothes  the  temper.  When 
I  went  away  for  a  holiday  anywhere  I  took  as 
much  of  that  exquisite  health-giving  mixture  as  I 
thought  would  last  me  the  whole  time,  but  I 
always  ran  out  of  it.  Then  I  telegraphed  to  Lon- 
don for  more,  and  was  miserable  until  it  arrived. 
How  I  tore  the  lid  off  the  canister !  That  is  a 
tobacco  to  live  for.  But  I  am  better  without  it. 

Occasionally  I  feel  a  little  depressed  after  dinner 
still,  without  being  able  to  say  why,  and  if  my 
wife  has  left  me,  I  wander  about  the  room  rest- 
lessly, like  one  who  misses  something.  Usually, 
however,  she  takes  me  with  her  to  the  drawing- 
room,  and  reads  aloud  her  delightfully  long  home- 
letters  or  plays  soft  music  to  me.  If  the  music 
be  sweet  and  sad  it  takes  me  away  to  a  stair  in 
an  inn,  which  I  climb  gayly,  and  shake  open  a 
heavy  door  on  the  top  floor,  and  turn  up  the  gas. 
It  is  a  little  room  I  am  in  once  again,  and  very 
dusty.  A  pile  of  papers  and  magazines  stands  as 
high  as  a  table  in  the  corner  furthest  from  the 
door.  The  cane  chair  shows  the  exact  shape  of 
Marriot's  back.  What  is  left  (after  lighting  the 
fire)  of  a  frame  picture  lies  on  the  hearth-rug. 
Gilray  walks  in  uninvited.  He  has  left  word  that 
his  visitors  are  to  be  sent  on  to  me.  The  room 
fills.  My  hand  feels  along  the  mantel-piece  for 
a  brown  jar.  The  jar  is  between  my  knees ;  I 
fill  my  pipe.  .  .  . 

After  a  time  the  music  ceases,  and  my  wife  puts 
her  hand  on  my  shoulder.  Perhaps  I  start  a  little, 
and  then  she  says  I  have  been  asleep.  This  is 
the  book  of  my  dreams. 


MY  LAD  Y  NICO  TINE.^  191 


CHAPTER  IL 

MY  FIRST    CIGAR. 

IT  was  not  in  my  chambers,  but  three  hundred 
miles  further  north,  that  I  learned  to  smoke.  I 
think  I  may  say  with  confidence  that  a  first  cigar 
was  never  smoked  in  such  circumstances  before. 

At  that  time  I  was  a  school-boy,  living  with 
my  brother,  who  was  a  man.  People  mistook 
our  relations,  and  thought  I  was  his  son.  They 
would  ask  me  how  my  father  was,  and  when  he 
heard  of  this  he  scowled  at  me.  Even  to  this  day 
I  look  so  young  that  people  who  remember  me 
as  a  boy  now  think  I  must  be  that  boy's  younger 
brother.  I  shall  tell  presently  of  a  strange  mis- 
take of  this  kind,  but  at  present  I  am  thinking  of 
the  evening  when  my  brother's  eldest  daughter 
was  born — perhaps  the  most  trying  evening  he 
and  I  ever  passed  together.  So  far  as  I  knew, 
the  affair  was  very  sudden,  and  I  felt  sorry  for 
my  brother  as  well  as  for  myself. 

We  sat  together  in  the  study,  he  on  an  arm- 
chair drawn  near  the  fire  and  I  on  the  couch.  I 
cannot  say  now  at  what  time  I  began  to  have 
an  inkling  that  there  was  something  wrong.  It 
came  upon  me  gradually  and  made  me  very  un- 
comfortable, though  of  course  I  did  not  show 
this.  I  heard  people  going  up  and  downstairs, 
but  I  was  not  at  that  time  naturally  suspicious. 
Comparatively  early  in  the  evening  I  felt  that  my 
brother  had  something  on  his  mind.  As  a  rule, 
when  we  were  left  together,  he  yawned  or 
drummed  with  his  fingers  on  the  arm  of  his  chair 


192  MY  LADY  NICOTINE. 

to  show  that  he  did  not  feel  uncomfortable,  or  I 
made  a  pretense  of  being  at  ease  by  playing  with 
the  dog  or  saying  that  the  room  was  close.  Then 
one  of  us  would  rise,  remark  that  he  had  left  his 
book  in  the  dining-room,  and  go  away  to  look  for 
it,  taking  care  not  to  come  back  till  the  other  had 
gone.  In  this  crafty  way  we  helped  each  other. 
On  that  occasion,  however,  he- did  not  adopt  any 
of  the  usual  methods,  and  though  I  went  up  to 
my  bedroom  several  times  and  listened  through 
the  wall,  I  heard  nothing.  At  last  some  one  told 
me  not  to  go  upstairs,  and  I  returned  to  the 
study,  feeling  that  I  now  knew  the  worst.  He 
was  still  in  the  arm-chair,  and  I  again  took  to  the 
couch.  I  could  see  by  the  way  he  looked  at  me 
over  his  pipe  that  he  was  wondering  whether  I 
knew  anything.  I  don't  think  I  ever  liked  my 
brother  better  than  on  that  night ;  and  I  wanted 
him  to  understand  that,  whatever  happened,  it 
would  make  no  difference  between  us.  But  the 
affair  upstairs  was  too  delicate  to  talk  of,  and  all 
I  could  do  was  to  try  to  keep  his  mind  from 
brooding  on  it,  by  making  him  tell  me  things 
about  politics.  This  is  the  kind  of  man  my 
brother  is.  He  is  an  astonishing  master  of  facts, 
and  I  suppose  he  never  read  a  book  yet,  from  a 
Blue  Book  to  a  volume  of  verse,  without  catch- 
ing the  author  in  error  about  something.  He 
reads  books  for  that  purpose.  As  a  rule,  I 
avoided  argument  with  him,  because  he  was  dis- 
appointed if  I  was  right  and  stormed  if  I  was 
wrong.  It  was  therefore  a  dangerous  thing  to 
begin  on  politics,  but  I  thought  the  circumstances 
warranted  it.  To  my  surprise  he  answered  me 
in  a  rambling  manner ;  occasionally  breaking  off 
in  the  middle  of  a  sentence  and  seeming  to  listen 


MY  LAD  Y  NICO  TINE.  193 

for  something.  I  tried  him  on  history,  and  men- 
tioned 1822  as  the  date  of  the  battle  of  Waterloo, 
merely  to  give  him  his  opportunity.  But  he  let 
it  pass.  After  that  there  was  silence.  By  and 
by  he  rose  from  his  chair,  apparently  to  leave  the 
room,  and  then  sat  down  again,  as  if  he  had 
thought  better  of  it  He  did  this  several  times, 
always  eying  me  narrowly.  Wondering  how  I 
could  make  it  easier  for  him,  I  took  up  a  book 
and  pretended  to  read  with  deep  attention,  mean- 
ing to  show  him  that  he  could  go  away  if  he 
liked  without  my  noticing  it.  At  last  he  jumped 
up,  and,  looking  at  me  boldly,  as  if  to  show  that 
the  house  was  his  and  he  could  do  what  he  liked 
in  it,  went  heavily  from  the  room.  As  soon  as  he 
was  gone  I  laid  down  my  book.  I  was  now  in  a 
state  of  nervous  excitement,  though  outwardly  I 
was  quite  calm.  I  took  a  look  at  him  as  he  went 
up  the  stairs,  and  noticed  that  he  had  slipped  off 
his  shoes  on  the  bottom  step.  All  haughtiness 
had  left  him  now. 

In  a  little  while  he  came  back.  He  found  me 
reading.  He  lighted  his  pipe  and  pretended  to 
read  too.  I  shall  never  forget  that  my  book  was 
"Anne  Judge,  Spinster,"  while  his  was  a  volume 
of  "Blackwood."  Every  five  minutes  his  pipe 
went  out,  and  sometimes  the  book  lay  neglected 
on  his  knee  as  he  stared  at  the  fire.  Then  he 
would  go  out  for  five  minutes  and  come  back 
again.  It  was  late  now,  and  I  felt  that  I  should 
like  to  go  to  my  bedroom  and  lock  myself  in. 
That,  however,  would  have  been  selfish ;  so  we 
sat  on  defiantly.  At  last  he  started  from  his 
chair,  as  some  one  knocked  at  the  door.  I  heard 
several  people  talking,  and  then  loud  above  their 
voices  a  younger  one. 


194  **y  LAD  Y  NICO  TINE. 

When  I  came  to  myself,  the  first  thing  I  thought 
was  that  they  would  ask  me  to  hold  it.  Then  I 
remembered,  with  another  sinking  at  the  heart, 
that  they  might  want  to  call  it  after  me.  These, 
of  course,  were  selfish  reflections  ;  but  my  posi- 
tion was  a  trying  one.  The  question  was,  what 
was  the  proper  thing  for  me  to  do  ?  I  told  my- 
self that  my  brother  might  come  back  at  any  mo- 
ment, and  all  I  thought  of  after  that  was  what  I 
should  say  to  him.  I  had  an  idea  that  I  ought  to 
congratulate  him,  but  it  seemed  a  brutal  thing  to 
do.  I  had  not  made  up  my  mind  when  I  heard 
him  coming  down.  He  was  laughing  and  joking 
in  what  seemed  to  me  a  flippant  kind  of  way, 
considering  the  circumstances.  When  his  hand 
touched  the  door  I  snatched  at  my  book  and  read 
as  hard  as  I  could.  He  was  swaggering  a  little 
as  he  entered,  but  the  swagger  went  out  of  him 
as  soon  as  his  eye  fell  on  me.  I  fancy  he  had 
come  down  to  tell  me,  and  now  he  did  not  know 
how  to  begin.  He  walked  up  and  down  the 
room  restlessly,  looking  at  me  as  he  walked  the 
one  way,  while  I  looked  at  him  as  he  walked  the 
other  way.  At  length  he  sat  down  again  and 
took  up  his  book.  He  did  not  try  to  smoke. 
The  silence  was  something  terrible  ;  nothing  was 
to  be  heard  but  an  occasional  cinder  falling  from 
the  grate.  This  lasted,  I  should  say,  for  twenty 
minutes,  and  then  he  closed  his  book  and  flung 
it  on  the  table.  I  saw  that  the  game  was  up,  and 
closed  "Anne  Judge,  Spinster."  Then  he  said, 
with  affected  jocularity  :  "Well,  young  man,  do 
you  know  that  you  are  an  uncle  ? "  There  was 
silence  again,  for  I  was  still  trying  to  think  out 
some  appropriate  remark.  After  a  time  I  said, 
in  a  weak  voice,  "Boy  or  girl?"  "Girl,"  he 


MY  LAD  Y  NICOTINE.  195 

answered.  Then  I  thought  hard  again,  and  all 
at  once  remembered  something.  "Both  doing 
well?"  I  whispered.  "Yes,"  he  said,  sternly. 
I  felt  that  something  great  was  expected  of  me, 
but  I  could  not  jump  up  and  wring  his  hand.  I 
was  an  uncle.  I  stretched  out  my  arm  toward 
the  cigar-box,  and  firmly  lighted  my  first  cigar. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  ARCADIA  MIXTURE. 

DARKNESS  comes,  and  with  it  the  porter  to  light 
our  stair  gas.  He  vanishes  into  his  box.  Al- 
ready the  inn  is  so  quiet  that  the  tap  of  a  pipe  on 
a  window-sill  startles  all  the  sparrows  in  the 
quadrangle.  The  men  on  my  stair  emerged  from 
their  holes.  Scrymgeour,  in  a  dressing-gown, 
pushes  open  the  door  of  the  boudoir  on  the  first 
floor,  and  climbs  lazily.  The  sentimental  face 
and  the  clay  with  a  crack  in  it  are  Marriot's. 
Gilray,  who  has  been  rehearsing  his  part  in  the 
new  original  comedy  from  the  Icelandic,  ceases 
muttering  and  feels  his  way  along  his  dark  lobby. 
Jimmy  pins  a  notice  on  his  door  "Called  away 
on  business,"  and  crosses  to  me.  Soon  we  are 
all  in  the  old  room  again,  Jimmy  on  the  hearth- 
rug, Harriot  in  the  cane  chair  ;  the  curtains  are 
pinned  together  with  a  pen-nib,  and  the  five  of  us 
are  smoking  the  Arcadia  Mixture. 

Pettigrew  will  be  welcomed  if  he  comes,  but  he 
is  a  married  man,  and  we  seldom  see  him  nowa- 
days. Others  will  be  regarded  as  intruders.  If 
they  are  smoking  common  tobaccoes,  they  must 


196  AfY  LAD  Y  NICO  TINE. 

cither  be  allowed  to  try  ours  or  requested  to  with- 
draw. One  need  only  put  his  head  in  at  my  door 
to  realize  that  tobaccoes  are  of  two  kinds,  the  Ar- 
cadia and  others.  No  one  who  smokes  the  Ar- 
cadia would  ever  attempt  to  describe  its  delights, 
for  his  pipe  would  be  certain  to  go  out  When 
he  was  at  school,  Jimmy  Moggridge  smoked  a 
cane  chair,  and  he  has  since  said  that  from  cane 
to  ordinary  mixtures  was  not  so  noticeable  as  the 
change  from  ordinary  mixtures  to  the  Arcadia.  I 
ask  no  one  to  believe  this,  for  the  confirmed 
smoker  in  Arcadia  detests  arguing  with  anybody 
about  anything.  Were  I  anxious  to  prove  Jimmy's 
statement,  I  would  merely  give  you  the  only 
address  at  which  the  Arcadia  is  to  be  had.  But 
that  I  will  not  do.  It  would  be  as  rash  as  pro- 
posing a  man  with  whom  I  am  unacquainted  for 
my  club.  You  may  not  be  worthy  to  smoke  the 
Arcadia  Mixture. 

Even  though  I  became  attached  to  you,  I  might 
not  like  to  take  the  responsibility  of  introducing 
you  to  the  Arcadia.  This  mixture  has  an  extraor- 
dinary effect  upon  character,  and  probably  you 
want  to  remain  as  you  are.  Before  I  discovered 
the  Arcadia,  and  communicated  it  to  the  other 
five — including  Pettigrew — we  had  all  distinct  in- 
dividualities, but  now,  except  in  appearance — and 
the  Arcadia  even  tells  on  that — we  are  as  like  as 
holly  leaves.  We  have  the  same  habits,  the  same 
ways  of  looking  at  things,  the  same  satisfaction  in 
each  other.  No  doubt  we  are  not  yet  absolutely 
alike,  indeed  I  intend  to  prove  this,  but  in  given 
circumstances  we  would  probably  do  the  same 
thing,  and,  furthermore,  it  would  be  what  other 
people  would  not  do.  Thus  when  we  are  togeth- 
er we  are  only  to  be  distinguished  by  our  pipes ; 


My  LAD  Y  NICO  TINE.  197 

but  any  one  of  us  in  the  company  of  persons  who 
smoke  other  tobaccoes  would  be  considered  highly 
original.  He  would  be  a  pigtail  in  Europe. 

If  you  meet  in  company  a  man  who  has  ideas 
and  is  not  shy,  yet  refuses  absolutely  to  be  drawn 
into  talk,  you  may  set  him  down  as  one  of  us. 
Among  the  first  effects  of  the  Arcadia  is  to  put  an 
end  to  jabber.  Gilray  had  at  one  time  the  rep- 
utation of  being  such  a  brilliant  talker  that  Ar- 
cadians locked  their  doors  on  him,  but  now  he  is 
a  man  that  can  be  invited  anywhere.  The  Arcadia 
is  entirely  responsible  for  the  change.  Perhaps 
I  myself  am  the  most  silent  of  our  company,  and 
hostesses  usually  think  me  shy.  They  ask  ladies 
to  draw  me  out,  and  when  the  ladies  find  me  as 
hopeless  as  a  sulky  drawer,  they  call  me  stupid. 
The  charge  may  be  true,  but  I  do  not  resent  it, 
for  I  smoke  the  Arcadia  Mixture,  and  am  con- 
sequently indifferent  to  abuse. 

I  willingly  gibbet  myself  to  show  how  reticent 
the  Arcadia  makes  us.  It  happens  that  I  have 
a  connection  with  Nottingham,  and  whenever  a 
man  mentions  Nottingham  to  me,  with  a  certain 
gleam  in  his  eye,  I  know  that  he  wants  to  discuss 
the  lace  trade.  But  it  is  a  curious  fact  that  the 
aggressive  talker  constantly  mixes  up  Nottingham 
and  Northampton.  "Oh,  you  know  Notting- 
ham," he  says,  interestedly;  "and  how  do  you 
like  Labouchere  for  a  member  ?  "  Do  you  think 
I  put  him  right  ?  Do  you  imagine  me  thirsting  to 
tell  that  Mr.  Labouchere  is  the  Christian  member 
for  Northampton  ?  Do  you  suppose  me  swift 
to  explain  that  Mr.  Broadhurst  is  one  of  the  Not- 
tingham members  and  that  the  "Nottingham 
lambs  "  are  notorious  in  the  history  of  political 
elections  ?  Do  you  fancy  me  explaining  that  he 


I9&  MY  LADY  NICOTINE. 

is  quite  right  in  saying  that  Nottingham  has  a 
large  market-place  ?  Do  you  see  me  drawn  into 
half  an  hour's  talk  about  Robin  Hood?  That  is 
not  my  way.  I  merely  reply  that  we  like  Mr. 
Labouchere  pretty  well.  It  may  be  said  that  I 
gain  nothing  by  this  ;  that  the  talker  will  be  as 
curious  about  Northampton  as  he  would  have 
been  about  Nottingham,  and  that  Bradlaugh  and 
Labouchere  and  boots  will  serve  his  turn  quite  as 
well  as  Broadhurst  and  lace  and  Robin  Hood. 
But  that  is  not  so.  Beginning  on  Northampton 
in  the  most  confident  manner,  it  suddenly  flashes 
across  him  that  he  has  mistaken  Northampton  for 
Nottingham.  "  How  foolish  of  me  !  "  he  says. 
I  maintain  a  severe  silence.  He  is  annoyed. 
My  experience  of  talkers  tells  me  that  nothing 
annoys  them  so  much  as  a  blunder  of  this  kind. 
From  the  coldly  polite  way  in  which  I  have  taken 
the  talker's  remarks,  he  discovers  the  value  I  put 
upon  them,  and  after  that,  if  he  has  a  neighbor 
on  the  other  side,  he  leaves  me  alone. 

Enough  has  been  said  to  show  that  the  Ar- 
cadian's golden  rule  is  to  be  careful  about  what 
he  sayo.  This  does  not  mean  that  he  is  to  say 
nothing.  As  society  is  at  present  constituted  you 
we  bound  to  make  an  occasional  remark.  But 
you  need  not  make  it  rashly.  It  has  been  said 
somewhere  that  it  would  be  well  for  talkative 
persons  to  count  twenty,  or  to  go  over  the  alpha- 
bet, before  they  let  fall  the  observation  that  trem- 
bles on  their  lips.  The  non-talker  has  no  taste 
for  such  an  unintellectual  exercise.  At  the  same 
time  he  must  not  hesitate  too  long,  for,  of  course, 
it  is  to  his  advantage  to  introduce  the  subject. 
He  ought  to  think  out  a  topic  of  which  his  neigh- 
bor will  not  be  able  to  make  very  much.  To 


MY  LADY  NICOTINE.  199 

begin  on  the  fall  of  snow,  or  the  number  of  tons 
of  turkeys  consumed  on  Christmas-day,  as  stated 
in  the  "  Daily  Telegraph,"  is  to  deserve  your  fate. 
If  you  are  at  a  dinner-party  of  men  only,  take  your 
host  aside,  and  in  a  few  well-considered  sentences 
find  out  from  him  what  kind  of  men  you  are  to  sit 
between  during  dinner.  Perhaps  one  of  them  is 
an  African  traveler.  A  knowledge  of  this  prevents 
your  playing  into  his  hands,  by  remarking  that 
the  papers  are  full  of  the  relief  of  Emin  Pasha. 
These  private  inquiries  will  also  save  you  from 
talking  about  Mr.  Chamberlain  to  a  neighbor  who 
turns  out  to  be  the  son  of  a  Birmingham  elector. 
Allow  that  man  his  chance,  and  he  will  not  only 
give  you  the  Birmingham  gossip,  but  what  indi- 
vidual electors  said  about  Mr.  Chamberlain  to  the 
banker  or  the  tailor,  and  what  the  grocer  did  the 
moment  the  poll  was  declared,  with  particulars 
about  the  antiquity  of  Birmingham  and  the  fish- 
ing to  be  had  in  the  neighborhood.  What  you 
ought  to  do  is  to  talk  about  Emin  Pasha  to  this 
man,  and  to  the  traveler  about  Mr.  Chamberlain, 
taking  care,  of  course,  to  speak  in  a  low  voice. 
In  that  way  you  may  have  comparative  peace. 
Everything,  however,  depends  on  the  caliber  of 
your  neighbors.  If  they  agree  to  look  upon 
you  as  an  honorable  antagonist,  and  so  to  fight 
fair,  the  victory  will  be  to  him  who  deserves  it ; 
that  is  to  say,  to  the  craftier  man  of  the  two. 
But  talkers,  as  a  rule,  do  not  fight  fair.  They 
consider  silent  men  their  prey.  It  will  thus  be 
seen  that  I  distinguish  between  talkers,  admit- 
ting that  some  of  them  are  worse  than  others. 
The  lowest  in  the  social  scale  is  he  who  stabs  you 
in  the  back,  as  it  were,  instead  of  crossing  swords. 
If  one  of  the  gentleman  introduced  to  you  is  of 


400 

that  type,  he  will  not  be  ashamed  to  say,  "  Speak- 
ing of  Emin  Pasha,  I  wonder  if  Mr.  Chamberlain 
is  interested  in  the  relief  expedition.  I  don't  know 
if  I  told  you  that  my  father — "  and  there  he  is, 
fairly  on  horseback.  It  is  seldom  of  any  use  to 
tempt  him  into  other  channels.  Better  turn  to 
your  traveler  and  let  him  describe  the  different 
routes  to  Egyptian  Equatorial  Provinces,  with  his 
own  views  thereon.  Allow  him  even  to  draw  a 
map  of  Africa  with  a  fork  on  the  table-cloth.  A 
talker  of  this  kind  is  too  full  of  his  subject  to  insist 
upon  answering  questions,  so  that  he  does  not 
trouble  you  much.  It  is  his  own  dinner  that  is 
spoiled  rather  than  yours.  Treat  in  the  same  way 
as  the  Chamberlain  talker  the  man  who  sits  down 
beside  you  and  begins,  "Remarkable  man,  Mr. 
Gladstone. " 

There  was  a  ventilator  in  my  room,  which 
sometimes  said  "Crik-crik!"  reminding  us  that 
no  one  had  spoken  for  half  an  hour.  Occa- 
sionally, however,  we  had  lapses  of  speech,  when 
Gilray  might  tell  over  again — though  not  quite 
as  I  mean  to  tell  it — the  story  of  his  first  pipeful 
of  the  Arcadia,  or  Scrymgeour,  the  traveled 
man,  would  give  us  the  list  of  famous  places  in 
Europe  where  he  had  smoked.  But,  as  a  rule, 
none  of  us  paid  much  attention  to  what  the 
others  said,  and  after  the  last  pipe  the  room 
emptied — unless  Harriot  insisted  on  staying  be- 
hind to  bore  me  with  his  scruples — by  first  one 
and  then  another  putting  his  pipe  into  his  pocket 
and  walking  silently  out  of  the  room. 


MY  LA*>  y  MCQTIML 


CHAPTER  IV. 

MY   PIPES. 

IN  a  select  company  of  scoffers  my  brier  was 
known  as  the  Mermaid.  The  mouth-piece  was  a 
cigarette-holder,  and  months  of  unwearied  prac- 
tice were  required  before  you  found  the  angle  at 
which  the  bowl  did  not  drop  off. 

This  brings  me  to  one  of  the  many  advantages 
that  my  brier  had  over  all  other  pipes.  It  has 
given  me  a  reputation  for  gallantry,  to  which 
without  it  I  fear  I  could  lay  no  claim.  I  used  to 
have  a  passion  for  repartee,  especially  in  the 
society  of  ladies.  But  it  is  with  me  as  with 
many  other  men  of  parts  whose  wit  has  ever  to 
be  fired  by  a  long  fuse  :  my  best  things  strike 
me  as  I  wend  my  way  home.  This  imbittered 
my  early  days  ;  and  not  till  the  pride  of  youth 
had  been  tamed  could  I  stop  to  lay  in  a  stock  of 
repartee  on  likely  subjects  the  night  before. 
Then  my  pipe  helped  me.  It  was  the  apparatus 
that  carried  me  to  my  prettiest  compliment. 
Having  exposed  my  pipe  in  some  prominent 
place  where  it  could  hardly  escape  notice,  I  took 
measures  for  insuring  a  visit  from  a  lady,  young, 
graceful,  accomplished.  Or  I  might  have  it  ready 
for  a  chance  visitor.  On  her  arrival,  I  conducted 
her  to  a  seat  near  my  pipe.  It  is  not  good  to 
hurry  on  to  the  repartee  at  once ;  so  I  talked  for 
a  time  of  the  weather,  the  theaters,  the  new 
novel.  I  kept  my  eye  on  her;  and  by  and 


70*  MY  LAD  Y  NICO  TINS. 

by  she  began  to  look  about  her.  She  observed 
the  strange-looking  pipe.  Now  is  the  critical 
moment.  It  is  possible  that  she  may  pass  it  by 
without  remark,  in  which  case  all  is  lost ;  but 
experience  has  shown  me  that  four  times  out  of 
six  she  touches  it  in  assumed  horror,  to  pass 
some  humorous  remark.  Off  tumbles  the  bowl. 
"Oh,"  she  exclaims,  "see  what  I  have  done  !  I 
am  so  sorry!"  I  pull  myself  together.  "Ma- 
dame," I  reply  calmly,  and  bowing  low,  "what 
else  was  to  be  expected  ?  You  came  near  my 
pipe — and  it  lost  its  head  !  "  She  blushes,  but 
cannot  help  being  pleased ;  and  I  set  my  pipe 
for  the  next  visitor.  By  the  help  of  a  note-book, 
of  course  I  guarded  myself  against  paying  this 
very  neat  compliment  to  any  person  more  than 
once.  However,  after  I  smoked  the  Arcadia 
the  desire  to  pay  ladies  compliments  went  from 
me. 

Journeying  back  into  the  past,  I  come  to  a 
time  when  my  pipe  had  a  mouth-piece  of  fine 
amber.  The  bowl  and  .the  rest  of  the  stem  were 
of  brier,  but  it  was  a  gentlemanly  pipe,  without 
silver  mountings.  Such  tobacco  I  reveled  in  as 
may  have  filled  the  pouch  of  Pan  as  he  lay  smok- 
ing on  the  mountain-sides.  Once  I  saw  a  beau- 
tiful woman  with  brown  hair,  in  and  out  of 
which  the  rays  of  a  morning  sun  played  hide- 
and-seek,  that  might  not  unworthily  have  been 
compared  to  it.  Beguiled  by  the  exquisite 
Arcadia,  the  days  and  the  years  passed  from 
me  in  delicate  rings  of  smoke,  and  I  content- 
edly watched  them  sailing  to  the  skies.  How 
continuous  was  the  line  of  those  lovely  circles, 
and  how  straight !  One  could  have  passed  an 
iron  rod  through  them  from  end  to  end.  But  one 


Mr  LADY  N1CO TINA.  $03 

day  I  had  a  harsh  awakening.  I  bit  the  amber 
mouth-piece  of  my  pipe  through,  and  life  was 
never  the  same  again. 

It  is  strange  how  attached  we  become  to  old 
friends,  though  they  be  but  inanimate  objects. 
The  old  pipe  put  aside,  I  turned  to  a  meerschaum, 
which  had  been  presented  to  me  years  before, 
with  the  caution  that  I  must  not  smoke  it  unless 
I  wore  kid  gloves.  There  was  no  savor  in  that 
pipe  for  me.  I  tried  another  brier,  and  it  made 
me  unhappy.  Clays  would  not  keep  in  with 
me.  It  seemed  as  if  they  knew  I  was  hanker- 
ing after  the  old  pipe  and  went  out  in  disgust. 
Then  I  got  a  new  amber  mouth-piece  for  my 
first  love.  In  a  week  I  had  bitten  that  through 
too,  and  in  an  over-anxious  attempt  to  file  off  the 
ragged  edges  I  broke  the  screw.  Moralists  have 
said  that  the  smoker  who  has  no  thought  but  for 
his  pipe  never  breaks  it ;  that  it  is  he  only  who 
while  smoking  concentrates  his  mind  on  some 
less  worthy  object  that  sends  his  teeth  through 
the  amber.  This  may  be  so ;  for  I  am  a  phi- 
losopher, and  when  working  out  new  theories  I 
may  have  been  careless  even  of  that  which 
inspired  them  most. 

After  this  second  accident  nothing  went  well 
with  me  or  with  my  pipe.  I  took  the  mouth- 
pieces out  of  other  pipes  and  fixed  them  on  to 
the  Mermaid.  In  a  little  while  one  of  them  be- 
came too  wide  ;  another  broke  as  I  was  screw- 
ing it  more  firmly  in.  Then  the  bowl  cracked 
at  the  rim  and  split  at  the  bottom.  This  was  an 
annoyance  until  I  found  out  what  was  wrong 
and  plugged  up  the  fissures  with  sealing-wax. 
The  wax  melted  and  dropped  upon  my  clothe* 
after  a  time  ;  but  it  was  easily  renewed. 


104,  #Y  LADY  NICOTINE. 

It  was  now  that  I  had  the  happy  thought  of 
bringing  a  cigarette-holder  to  my  assistance. 
But  of  course  one  cannot  make  a  pipe-stem  out 
of  a  cigarrette-holder  all  at  once.  The  thread 
you  wind  round  the  screw  has  a  disappointing 
way  of  coming  undone,  when  down  falls  the 
bowl,  with  an  escape  of  sparks.  Twisting  a 
piece  of  paper  round  the  screw  is  an  improve- 
ment ;  but,  until  you  have  acquired  the  knack, 
the  operation  has  to  be  renewed  every  time  you 
relight  your  pipe.  This  involves  a  sad  loss  of 
time,  and  in  my  case  it  afforded  a  butt  for  the 
dull  wit  of  visitors.  Otherwise  I  found  it  satis- 
factory, and  I  was  soon  astonishingly  adept  at 
making  paper  screws.  Eventually  my  brier  be- 
came as  serviceable  as  formerly,  though  not, 
perhaps,  so  handsome.  I  fastened  on  the  holder 
with  sealing-wax,  and  often  a  week  passed  with- 
out my  having  to  renew  the  joint. 

It  was  no  easy  matter  lighting  a  pipe  like 
mine,  especially  when  I  had  no  matches.  I 
always  meant  to  buy  a  number  of  boxes,  but 
somehow  I  put  off  doing  it.  Occasionally  I 
found  a  box  of  vestas  on  my  mantel-piece,  which 
some  caller  had  left  there  by  mistake,  or  sympa- 
thizing, perhaps,  with  my  case  ;  but  they  were 
such  a  novelty  that  I  never  felt  quite  at  home 
with  them.  Generally  I  remembered  they  were 
there  just  after  my  pipe  was  lighted. 

When  I  kept  them  in  mind  and  looked  forward 
to  using  them,  they  were  at  the  other  side  of  the 
room,  and  it  would  have  been  a  pity  to  get  up 
for  them.  Besides,  the  most  convenient  medium 
for  lighting  one's  pipe  is  paper,  after  all ;  and  if 
you  have  not  an  old  envelope  in  your  pocket, 
there  is  probably  a  photograph  standing  on  the 


MY  LADY  NICOTINE. 


20$ 


mantel-piece.  It  is  convenient  to  have  the  maga- 
zines lying  handy  ;  or  a  page  from  a  book — hand- 
made paper  burns  beautifully — will  do.  To  be 
sure,  there  is  the  lighting  of  your  paper.  For  this 
your  lamp  is  practically  useless,  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  table,  while  you  are  in  an  easy-chair 
by  the  fireside  ;  and  as  for  the  tape-and-spark 
contrivance,  it  is  the  introduction  of  machinery 
into  the  softest  joys  of  life.  The  fire  is  best.  It 
is  near  you,  and  you  drop  your  burning  spill  into 
it  with  a  minimum  waste  of  energy.  The  proper 
fire  for  pipes  is  one  in  a  cheerful  blaze.  If  your 
spill  is  carelessly  constructed  the  flame  runs  up 
into  your  fingers  before  you  know  what  you  are 
doing,  so  that  it  is  as  well  to  marry  and  get  your 
wife  to  make  spills  for  you.  Before  you  begin  to 
smoke,  scatter  these  about  the  fireplace.  Then 
you  will  be  able  to  reach  them  without  rising. 
The  irritating  fire  is  the  one  that  has  burned  low 
— when  the  coals  are  more  than  half  cinders,  and 
cling  to  each  other  in  fear  of  death.  With  such 
a  fire  it  is  no  use  attempting  to  light  a  pipe  all  at 
once.  Your  better  course  now  is  to  drop  little  bits 
of  paper  into  the  likely  places  in  the  fire,  and  have 
a  spill  ready  to  apply  to  the  one  that  lights  first. 
It  is  an  anxious  moment,  for  they  may  merely 
shrivel  up  sullenly  without  catching  fire,  and  in 
that  case  some  men  lose  their  tempers.  Bad  to 
lose  your  temper  over  your  pipe — 

No  pipe  really  ever  rivaled  the  brier  in  my 
affections,  though  I  can  recall  a  mad  month  when 
I  fell  in  love  with  two  little  meerschaums,  which 
I  christened  Romulus  and  Remus.  They  lay  to- 
gether in  one  case  in  Regent  Street,  and  it  was 
with  difficulty  that  I  could  pass  the  shop  without 
going  in.  Often  I  took  side  streets  to  escape  their 


2o6  MY  LAD  Y  NICOTINE, 

glances,  but  at  last  I  asked  the  price.     It  startled 
me,  and  I  hurried  home  to  the  brier. 

I  forget  when  it  was  that  a  sort  of  compromise 
struck  me.  This  was  that  I  should  present  the 
pipes  to  my  brother  as  a  birthday  gift.  Did  I 
really  mean  to  do  this,  or  was  I  only  trying  to 
cheat  my  conscience?  Who  can  tell?  I  hurried 
again  into  Regent  Street.  There  they  were,  more 
beautiful  than  ever.  I  hovered  about  the  shop 
for  quite  half  an  hour  that  day.  My  indecision 
and  vacillation  were  pitiful.  Buttoning  up  my 
coat,  I  would  rush  from  the  window,  only  to  find 
myself  back  again  in  five  minutes.  Sometimes  I 
had  my  hand  on  the  shop  door.  Then  I  tore  it 
away  and  hurried  into  Oxford  Street.  Then  I 
slunk  back  again.  Self  whispered.  "  Buy  them — 
for  your  brother."  Conscience  said,  "Go  home." 
At  last  I  braced  myself  up  for  a  magnificent  effort, 
and  jumped  into  a  'bus  bound  for  London  Bridge. 
This  saved  me  for  the  time. 

I  now  began  to  calculate  how  I  could  become 
owner  of  the  meerschaums — prior  to  dispatching 
them  by  parcel-post  to  my  brother — without  pay- 
ing for  them.  That  was  my  way  of  putting  it. 
I  calculated  that  by  giving  up  my  daily  paper  I 
should  save  thirteen  shillings  in  six  months. 
After  all,  why  should  I  take  in  a  daily  paper?  To 
read  through  columns  of  public  speeches  and 
police  cases  and  murders  in  Paris  is  only  to  squan- 
der valuable  time.  Now,  when  I  left  home  I 
promised  my  father  not  to  waste  my  time.  My 
father  had  been  very  good  to  me ;  why,  then, 
should  I  do  that  which  I  had  promised  him  not 
to  do  ?  Then,  again,  there  were  the  theaters. 
During  the  past  six  months  I  had  spent  several 
pounds  on  theaters.  Was  this  right  ?  My  mother. 


MY  LAD  Y  NICOTINE.  207 

who  has  never,  I  think,  been  in  a  theater,  strongly 
advised  me  against  frequenting  such  places.  I 
did  not  take  this  much  to  heart  at  the  time. 
Theaters  did  not  seem  to  me  to  be  immoral.  But, 
after  all,  my  mother  is  older  than  I  am  ;  and  who 
am  I,  to  set  my  views  up  against  hers  ?  By  avoid- 
ing the  theaters  for  the  next  six  months,  I  am 
(already),  say,  three  pounds  to  the  good.  I  had 
been  frittering  away  my  money,  too,  on  luxuries  ; 
and  luxuries  are  effeminate.  Thinking  the  matter 
over  temperately  and  calmly  in  that  way,  I  saw 
that  I  should  be  thoughtfully  saving  money,  in- 
stead of  spending  it,  by  buying  Romulus  and 
Remus,  as  I  already  called  them.  At  the  same 
time,  I  should  be  gratifying  my  father  and  my 
mother,  and  leading  a  higher  and  a  nobler  life. 
Even  then  I  do  not  know  that  I  should  have 
bought  the  pipes  until  the  six  months  were  up, 
had  I  not  been  driven  to  it  by  jealousy.  On  my 
life,  love  for  a  pipe  is  ever  like  love  for  a  woman, 
though  they  say  it  is  not  so  acute.  Many  a  man 
thinks  there  is  no  haste  to  propose  until  he  sees  a 
hated  rival  approaching.  Even  if  he  is  not  in  a 
hurry  for  the  lady  himself,  he  loathes  the  idea  of 
her  giving  herself,  in  a  moment  of  madness, 
to  that  other  fellow.  Rather  than  allow  that, 
he  proposes  himself,  and  so  insures  her  happi- 
ness. It  was  so  with  me.  Romulus  and  Remus 
were  taken  from  the  window  to  show  to  a  black- 
bearded,  swarthy  man,  whom  I  suspected  of  de- 
signs upon  them  the  moment  he  entered  the  shop. 
Ah,  the  agony  of  waiting  until  he  came  out !  He 
was  not  worthy  of  them.  I  never  knew  how 
much  I  loved  them  until  I  had  nearly  lost  them. 
As  soon  as  he  was  gone  I  asked  if  he  had  priced 
them,  and  was  told  that  he  had.  He  was  to  call 


208  MY  LAD  Y  NICO TINE. 

again  to-morrow.  I  left  a  deposit  of  a  guinea, 
hurried  home  for  more  money,  and  that  night 
Romulus  and  Remus  were  mine.  But  I  never 
really  loved  them  as  I  loved  my  brier. 


CHAPTER  V. 

MY  TOBACCO-POUCH. 

I  ONCE  knew  a  lady  who  said  of  her  husband 
that  he  looked  nice  when  sitting  with  a  rug  over 
him.  My  female  relatives  seemed  to  have  the 
same  opinion  of  my  tobacco-pouch  ;  for  they 
never  saw  it,  even  in  my  own  room,  without  put- 
ting a  book  or  pamphlet  over  it.  They  called  it 
"  that  thing,"  and  made  tongs  of  their  knitting- 
needles  to  lift  it ;  and  when  I  indignantly  returned 
it  to  my  pocket,  they  raised  their  hands  to  signify 
that  I  would  not  listen  to  reason.  It  seemed  to 
come  natural  to  other  persons  to  present  me  with 
new  tobacco-pouches,  until  I  had  nearly  a  score 
lying  neglected  in  drawers.  But  I  am  not  the 
man  to  desert  an  old  friend  that  has  been  with 
me  everywhere  and  thoroughly  knows  my  ways. 
Once,  indeed,  I  came  near  to  being  unfaithful  to 
my  tobacco-pouch,  and  I  mean  to  tell  how — 
partly  as  a  punishment  to  myself. 

The  incident  took  place  several  years  ago. 
Gilray  and  I  had  set  out  on  a  walking  tour  of  the 
Shakespeare  country  ;  but  we  separated  at  Strat- 
ford, which  was  to  be  our  starting-point,  because 
he  would  not  wait  for  me.  I  am  more  of  a 
Shakesperean  student  than  Gilray,  and  Stratford 
affected  me  so  much  that  I  passed  day  after  day 


MY  LAD  Y  NICO  TINE.  209 

smoking  reverently  at  the  hotel  door  ;  while  he, 
being  of  the  pure  tourist  type  (not  that  I  would 
say  a  word  against  Gilray)  wanted  to  rush  from 
one  place  of  interest  to  another.  He  did  not  un- 
derstand what  thoughts  came  to  me  as  I  strolled 
down  the  Stratford  streets  ;  and  in  the  hotel,  when 
I  lay  down  on  the  sofa,  he  said  I  was  sleeping, 
though  I  was  really  picturing  to  myself  Shakes- 
peare's boyhood.  Gilray  even  went  the  length 
of  arguing  that  it  would  not  be  a  walking  tour  at 
all  if  we  never  made  a  start ;  so,  upon  the  whole, 
I  was  glad  when  he  departed  alone.  The  next 
day  was  a  memorable  one  to  me.  In  the  morn- 
ing I  wrote  to  my  London  tobacconist  for  more 
Arcadia.  I  had  quarreled  with  both  of  the  Strat- 
ford tobacconists.  The  one  of  them,  as  soon  as 
he  saw  my  tobacco-pouch,  almost  compelled  me 
to  buy  a  new  one.  The  second  was  even  more 
annoying.  I  paid  with  a  half  sovereign  for  the  to- 
bacco I  had  got  from  him  ;  but  after  gazing  at  the 
pouch  he  became  suspicious  of  the  coin,  and 
asked  if  I  could  not  pay  him  in  silver.  An  insult 
to  my  pouch  I  considered  an  insult  to  myself;  so 
I  returned  to  those  shops  no  more.  The  evening 
of  the  day  on  which  I  wrote  to  London  for  to- 
bacco brought  me  a  letter  from  home  saying  that 
my  sister  was  seriously  ill.  I  had  left  her  in  good 
health,  so  that  the  news  was  the  more  distressing. 
Of  course  I  returned  home  by  the  first  train.  Sit- 
ting alone  in  a  dull  railway  compartment,  my 
heart  was  filled  with  tenderness,  and  I  recalled 
the  occasions  on  which  I  had  carelessly  given 
her  pain.  Suddenly  I  remembered  that  more  than 
once  she  had  besought  me  with  tears  in  her  eyes 
to  fling  away  my  old  tobacco-pouch.  She  had 
always  said  that  it  was  not  respectable.  In  the 
14 


2 1  o  MY  LAD  Y  NICO  TINE. 

bitterness  of  self-reproach  I  pulled  the  pouch  from 
my  pocket,  asking  myself  whether,  after  all,  the 
love  of  a  good  woman  was  not  a  far  more  precious 
possession.  Without  giving  myself  time  to  hesi- 
tate, I  stood  up  and  firmly  cast  my  old  pouch 
out  at  the  window.  I  saw  it  fall  at  the  foot  of  a 
fence.  The  train  shot  on. 

By  the  time  I  reached  home  my  sister  had  been 
pronounced  out  of  danger.  Of  course  I  was  much 
relieved  to  hear  it,  but  at  the  same  time  this  was 
a  lesson  to  me  not  to  act  rashly.  The  retention 
of  my  tobacco-pouch  would  not  have  retarded 
her  recovery,  and  I  could  not  help  picturing  my 
pouch,  my  oldest  friend  in  the  world,  lying  at 
the  foot  of  that  fence.  I  saw  that  I  had  done  a 
wrong  in  casting  it  from  me.  I  had  not  even 
the  consolation  of  feeling  that  if  any  one  found  it 
he  would  cherish  it,  for  it  was  so  much  damaged 
that  I  knew  it  could  never  appeal  to  a  new  owner 
as  it  appealed  to  me.  I  had  intended  telling  my 
sister  of  the  sacrifice  made  for  her  sake  ;  but 
after  seeing  her  so  much  better,  I  left  the  room 
without  doing  so.  There  was  Arcadia  Mixture 
in  the  house,  but  I  had  not  the  heart  to  smoke. 
I  went  early  to  bed,  and  fell  into  a  troubled  sleep, 
from  which  I  awoke  with  a  shiver.  The  rain  was 
driving  against  my  window,  tapping  noisily  on 
it  as  if  calling  on  me  to  awake  and  go  back  for 
my  tobacco-pouch.  It  rained  far  on  into  the 
morning,  and  I  lay  miserably,  seeing  nothing  be- 
fore me  but  a  wet  fence,  and  a  tobacco-pouch 
among  the  grass  at  the  foot  of  it 

On  the  following  afternoon  I  was  again  at 
Stratford.  So  far  as  I  could  remember,  I  had 
flung  away  the  pouch  within  a  few  miles  of  the 
station  ;  but  I  did  not  look  for  it  until  dusk.  I 


MY  LADY  NICO TINE.  * 1 1 

felt  that  the  porters  had  their  eyes  on  me.  By 
crouching  along  hedges  I  at  last  reached  the  rail- 
way a  mile  or  two  from  the  station,  and  began 
my  search.  It  may  be  thought  that  the  chances 
were  against  my  finding  the  pouch  ;  but  I  re- 
covered it  without  much  difficulty.  The  scene  as  I 
flung  my  old  friend  out  at  the  window  had  burned 
itself  into  my  brain,  and  I  could  go  to  the  spot 
to-day  as  readily  as  I  went  on  that  occasion. 
There  it  was,  lying  among  the  grass,  but  not 
quite  in  the  place  where  it  had  fallen.  Ap- 
parently some  navvy  had  found  it,  looked  at  it, 
and  then  dropped  it.  It  was  half  full  of  water, 
and  here  and  there  it  was  sticking  together ;  but 
I  took  it  up  tenderly,  and  several  times  on  the  way 
back  to  the  station  I  felt  in  my  pocket  to  make  sure 
that  it  was  really  there. 

I  have  not  described  the  appearance  of  my 
pouch,  feeling  that  to  be  unnecessary.  It  never, 
I  fear,  quite  recovered  from  its  night  in  the  rain, 
and  as  my  female  relatives  refused  to  touch  it,  I 
had  to  sew  it  together  now  and  then  myself. 
Gilray  used  to  boast  of  a  way  of  mending  a  hole 
in  a  tobacco-pouch  that  was  better  than  sewing. 
You  put  the  two  pieces  of  gutta-percha  close  to- 
gether, and  then  cut  them  sharply  with  scissors. 
This  makes  them  run  together,  he  says,  and  I 
believed  him  until  he  experimented  upon  my 
pouch.  However,  I  did  not  object  to  a  hole  here 
and  there.  Wherever  I  laid  that  pouch  it  left  a 
small  deposit  of  tobacco,  and  thus  I  could  gener- 
ally get  together  a  pipeful  at  times  when  other 
persons  would  be  destitute.  I  never  told  my 
sister  that  my  pouch  was  once  all  but  lost,  but 
ever  after  that,  when  she  complained  that  I  had 
never  even  tried  to  do  without  it,  I  smiled  tenderly. 


*  1 2  MY  LADY  NICO  TINE. 

CHAPTER  VL 

MY  SMOKING-TABLK. 

HAD  it  not  been  for  a  bootblack  at  Charing 
Cross  I  should  probably  never  have  bought  the 
smoking-table.  I  had  to  pass  that  boy  every 
morning.  In  vain  did  I  scowl  at  him,  or  pass 
with  my  head  to  the  side.  He  always  pointed 
derisively  (as  I  thought)  at  my  boots.  Probably 
my  boots  were  speckless,  but  that  made  no  differ- 
ence ;  he  jeered  and  sneered.  I  have  never  hated 
any  one  as  1  loathed  that  boy,  and  to  escape  him 
I  took  to  going  round  by  the  Lowther  Arcade. 
It  was  here  that  my  eye  fell  on  the  smoking-table. 
In  the  Lowther  Arcade,  if  the  attendants  catch 
you  looking  at  any  article  for  a  fraction  of  a 
second,  it  is  done  up  in  brown  paper,  you  have 
paid  your  money,  and  they  have  taken  down 
your  address  before  you  realize  that  you  don't 
want  anything.  In  this  way  I  became  the  owner 
of  my  smoking-table,  and  when  I  saw  it  in  a 
brown-paper  parcel  on  my  return  to  my  chambers 
I  could  not  think  what  it  was  until  I  cut  the 
strings.  Such  a  little  gem  of  a  table  no  smokers 
should  be  without ;  and  I  am  not  ashamed  to  say 
that  I  was  in  love  with  mine  as  soon  as  I  had 
fixed  the  pieces  together.  It  was  of  walnut,  and 
consisted  mainly  of  a  stalk  and  two  round  slabs 
not  much  bigger  than  dinner-plates.  There  were 
holes  in  the  center  of  these  slabs  for  the  stalk  to 
go  through,  and  the  one  slab  stood  two  feet  from 
the  floor,  the  other  a  foot  higher.  The  lower  slab 


MY  LAD  Y  NICO  TIN'S.  » 13 

was  fitted  with  a  walnut  tobacco-jar  and  a  pipe 
rack,  while  on  the  upper  slab  were  exquisite  little 
recesses  for  cigars,  cigarettes,  matches,  and  ashes. 
These  held  respectively  three  cigars,  two  ciga- 
rettes, and  four  wax  vestas.  The  smoking-table 
was  an  ornament  to  any  room  ;  and  the  first  night 
I  had  it  I  raised  my  eyes  from  my  book  to  look 
at  it  every  few  minutes.  I  got  all  my  pipes  to- 
gether and  put  them  in  the  rack ;  I  filled  the  jar 
with  tobacco,  the  recesses  with  three  cigars,  two 
cigarettes,  and  four  matches  ;  and  then  I  thought 
I  would  have  a  smoke.  I  swept  my  hand  con- 
fidently along  the  mantelpiece,  but  it  did  not  stop 
at  a  pipe.  I  rose  and  looked  for  a  pipe.  I  had 
half  a  dozen,  but  not  one  was  to  be  seen — none 
on  the  mantel-piece,  none  on  the  window-sill, 
none  on  the  hearth-rug,  none  being  used  as  book- 
markers. I  tugged  at  the  bell  till  William  John 
came  in  quaking,  and  then  I  asked  him  fiercely 
what  he  had  done  with  my  pipes.  I  was  so 
obviously  not  to  be  trifled  with  that  William  John, 
as  we  called  him,  because  some  thought  his  name 
was  William,  while  others  thought  it  was  John, 
very  soon  handed  me  my  favorite  pipe,  which  he 
found  in  the  rack  on  the  smoking-table.  This  in- 
cident illustrates  one  of  the  very  few  drawbacks 
of  smoking-tables.  Not  being  used  to  them,  you 
forgot  about  them.  William  John,  however,  took 
the  greatest  pride  in  the  table,  and  whenever  he 
saw  a  pipe  lying  on  the  rug  he  pounced  upon  it 
and  placed  it,  like  a  prisoner,  in  the  rack.  He 
was  also  most  particular  about  the  three  cigars, 
the  two  cigarettes,  and  the  four  wax  vestas,  keep- 
ing them  carefully  in  the  proper  compartments, 
where,  unfortunately,  I  seldom  thought  of  looking 
for  them. 


314  MY  LADY  NICO TINE. 

The  fatal  defect  of  the  smoking-table,  however, 
was  that  it  was  generally  rolling  about  the  floor 
— the  stalk  in  one  corner,  the  slabs  here  and  there, 
the  cigars  on  the  rug  to  be  trampled  on,  the  lid 
of  the  tobacco-jar  beneath  a  chair.  Every  morn- 
ing William  John  had  to  put  the  table  together. 
Sometimes  I  had  knocked  it  over  accidentally.  I 
would  fling  a  crumpled  piece  of  paper  into  the 
waste-paper  basket.  It  missed  the  basket  but 
hit  the  smoking-table,  which  went  down  like  a 
wooden  soldier.  When  my  fire  went  out,  just 
because  I  had  taken  my  eyes  off  it  for  a  moment, 
I  called  it  names  and  flung  the  tongs  at  it.  There 
was  a  crash — the  smoking-table  again.  In  time 
I  might  have  remedied  this  ;  but  there  is  one 
weakness  which  I  could  not  stand  in  any  smok- 
ing-table. A  smoking-table  ought  to  be  so  con- 
structed that  from  where  you  are  sitting  you  can 
stretch  out  your  feet,  twist  them  round  the  stalk, 
and  so  lift  the  table  to  the  spot  where  it  will  be 
handiest.  This  my  smoking-table  would  never 
do.  The  moment  I  had  it  in  the  air  it  wanted  to 
stand  on  its  head. 

Though  I  still  admired  smoking-tables  as  much 
as  ever,  I  began  to  want  very  much  to  give  this 
one  away.  The  difficulty  was  not  so  much  to 
know  whom  to  give  it  to  as  how  to  tie  it  up.  My 
brother  was  the  very  person,  for  I  owed  him  a 
letter,  and  this,  I  thought,  would  do  instead. 
For  a  month  I  meant  to  pack  the  table  up  and 
send  it  to  him  ;  but  I  always  put  off  doing  it,  and 
at  last  I  thought  the  best  plan  would  be  to  give  it 
to  Scrymgeour,  who  liked  elegant  furniture.  As 
a  smoker,  Scrymgeour  seemed  the  very  man  to 
appreciate  a  pretty,  useful  little  table.  Besides, 
all  I  had  to  do  was  to  send  William  John  down 


M Y  LAD  Y  NICO  TINE.  215 

with  it.  Scrymgeour  was  out  at  the  time;  but 
we  left  it  at  the  side  of  his  fireplace  as  a  pleasant 
surprise.  Next  morning,  to  my  indignation,  it 
was  back  at  the  side  of  my  fireplace,  and  in  the 
evening  Scrymgeour  came  and  upbraided  me  for 
trying,  as  he  most  unworthily  expressed  it,  "  to 
palm  the  thing  off  on  him."  He  was  no  sooner 
gone  than  I  took  the  table  to  pieces  to  send  it  to 
my  brother.  I  tied  the  stalk  up  in  brown  paper, 
meaning  to  get  a  box  for  the  other  parts.  William 
John  sent  off  the  stalk,  and  for  some  days  the 
other  pieces  littered  the  floor.  My  brother  wrote 
me  saying  he  had  received  something  from  me, 
for  which  his  best  thanks  ;  but  would  I  tell  him 
what  it  was,  as  it  puzzled  everybody  ?  This  was 
his  impatient  way  ;  but  I  made  an  effort,  and  sent 
off  the  other  pieces  to  him  in  a  hat-box. 

That  was  a  year  ago,  and  since  then  I  have 
only  heard  the  history  of  the  smoking-table  in 
fragments.  My  brother  liked  it  immensely  ;  but 
he  thought  it  was  too  luxurious  for  a  married  man, 
so  he  sent  it  to  Reynolds,  in  Edinburgh.  Not 
knowing  Reynolds,  I  cannot  say  what  his  opinion 
was  ;  but  soon  afterward  I  heard  of  its  being  in 
the  possession  of  Grayson,  who  was  charmed 
with  it,  but  gave  it  to  Pelle,  because  it  was  hardly 
in  its  place  in  a  bachelor's  establishment.  Later 
a  town  man  sent  it  to  a  country  gentleman  as 
just  the  thing  for  the  country;  and  it  was  after- 
ward in  Liverpool  as  the  very  thing  for  a  town. 
There  I  thought  it  was  lost,  so  far  as  I  was  con- 
cerned. One  day,  however,  Boyd,  a  friend  of 
mine  who  lives  in  Glasgow,  came  to  me  for  a 
week,  and  about  six  hours  afterward  he  said  that 
he  had  a  present  for  me.  He  brought  it  into  my 
sitting-room — a  bulky  parcel — and  while  he  was 


2 16  MY  LAD  Y  NICO  TINE. 

undoing  the  cords  he  told  me  it  was  something 
quite  novel ;  he  had  bought  it  in  Glasgow  the  day 
before.  When  I  saw  a  walnut  leg  I  started ;  in 
another  two  minutes  I  was  trying  to  thank  Boyd 
for  my  own  smokir.  g-table.  I  recognized  it  by 
the  dents.  I  was  too  much  the  gentleman  to  in- 
sist on  an  explanation  from  Boyd ;  but,  though  it 
seems  a  harsh  thing  to  say,  my  opinion  is  that 
these  different  persons  gave  the  table  away  be- 
cause they  wanted  to  get  rid  of  it  William  John 
has  it  now. 


CHAPTER  VIL 

OILRAY. 

GILRAY  is  an  actor,  whose  life  I  may  be  said  to 
have  strangely  influenced,  for  it  was  I  who  brought 
him  and  the  Arcadia  Mixture  together.  After  that 
his  coming  to  live  on  our  stair  was  only  a  matter 
of  rooms  being  vacant. 

We  met  first  in  the  Meredith's  house-boat,  the 
"Tawny  Owl,"  which  was  then  lying  at  Molesey. 
Gilray,  as  I  soon  saw,  was  a  man  trying  to  be 
miserable,  and  finding  it  the  hardest  task  in  life. 
It  is  strange  that  the  philosophers  have  never  hit 
upon  this  profound  truth.  No  man  ever  tried 
harder  to  be  unhappy  than  Gilray  ;  but  the  luck 
was  against  him,  and  he  was  always  forgetting 
himself.  Mark  Tapley  succeeded  in  being  jolly 
in  adverse  circumstances  ;  Gilray  failed,  on  the 
whole,  in  being  miserable  in  a  delightful  house- 
boat. It  is,  however,  so  much  more  difficult  to 
keep  up  misery  than  jollity  that  I  like  to  think  of 


MY  LAD  Y  NICOTINE.  a  1 7 

his  attempt  as  what  the  dramatic  critics  call  succts 
d'estime. 

The  "Tawny  Owl"  lay  on  the  far  side  of  the 
island.  There  were  ladies  in  it ;  and  Gilray's 
misery  was  meant  tt>  date  from  the  moment  when 
he  asked  one  of  them  a  question,  and  she  said 
"No.''  Gilray  was  strangely  unlucky  during  the 
whole  of  his  time  on  board.  His  evil  genius  was 
there,  though  there  was  very  little  room  for  him, 
and  played  sad  pranks.  Up  to  the  time  of  his 
asking  the  question  referred  to,  Gilray  meant  to 
create  a  pleasant  impression  by  being  jolly,  and 
he  only  succeeded  in  being  as  depressing  as 
Jaques.  Afterward  he  was  to  be  unutterably 
miserable  ;  and  it  was  all  he  could  do  to  keep 
himself  at  times  from  whirling  about  in  waltz 
tune.  But  then  the  nearest  boat  had  a  piano  on 
board,  and  some  one  was  constantly  playing 
dance  music.  Gilray  had  an  idea  that  it  would 
have  been  the  proper  thing  to  leave  Molesey  when 
she  said  "No;"  and  he  would  have  done  so 
had  not  the  barbel  fishing  been  so  good.  The 
barbel  fishing  was  altogether  unfortunate — at 
least  Gilray's  passion  for  it  was.  I  have  thought 
— and  so  sometimes  has  Gilray — that  if  it  had  not 
been  for  a  barbel  she  might  not  have  said  "No." 
He  was  fishing  from  the  house-boat  when  he  asked 
the  question.  You  know  how  you  fish  from  a 
house-boat.  The  line  is  flung  into  the  water 
and  the  rod  laid  down  on  deck.  You  keep  an 
a  eye  on  it.  Barbel  fishing,  in  fact,  reminds  one 
of  the  independent  sort  of  man  who  is  quite  will- 
ing to  play  host  to  you,  but  wishes  you  clearly  to 
understand  at  the  same  time  that  he  can  do  with- 
out you.  "Glad  to  see  you  with  us  if  you  have 
nothing  better  to  do  ;  but  please  yourself,"  is 


2 18  MY  LADY  NICOTINE. 

what  he  says  to  his  friends.  This  is  also  the  form 
of  invitation  to  barbel.  Now  it  happened  that  she 
and  Gilray  were  left  alone  in  the  house-boat.  It 
was  evening ;  some  Chinese  lanterns  had  been 
lighted,  and  Gilray,  though  you  would  not  think 
it  to  look  at  him,  is  romantic.  He  cast  his  line, 
and,  turning  to  his  companion,  asked  her  the 
question.  From  what  he  has  told  me  he  asked 
it  very  properly,  and  all  seemed  to  be  going  well. 
She  turned  away  her  head  (which  is  said  not  to 
be  a  bad  sign)  and  had  begun  to  reply,  when  a 
woful  thing  happened.  The  line  stiffened,  and 
there  was  a  whirl  of  the  reel.  Who  can  withstand 
that  music?  You  can  ask  a  question  at  anytime, 
but,  even  at  Molesey,  barbel  are  only  to  be  got 
now  and  then.  Gilray  rushed  to  his  rod  and  be- 
gan playing  the  fish.  He  called  to  his  companion 
to  get  the  landing  net.  She  did  so ;  and  after 
playing  his  barbel  for  ten  minutes  Gilray  landed 
it. — Then  he  turned  to  her  again,  and  she  said 
"No." 

Gilray  sees  now  that  he  made  a  mistake  in  not 
departing  that  night  by  the  last  train.  He  over- 
estimated his  strength.  However,  we  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  his  staying  on,  and  he  persuaded 
himself  that  he  remained  just  to  show  her  that  she 
had  ruined  his  life.  Once,  I  believe,  he  repeated 
his  question  ;  but  in  reply  she  only  asked  him  if 
he  had  caught  any  more  barbel.  Considering  the 
surprisingly  fine  weather,  the  barbel  fishing,  and 
the  piano  on  the  other  boat,  Gilray  was  perhaps 
as  miserable  as  could  reasonably  have  been  ex- 
pected. Where  he  ought  to  have  scored  best, 
however,  he  was  most  unlucky.  She  had  a  ham- 
mock swung  between  two  trees,  close  to  the  boat, 
and  there  she  lay,  holding  a  novel  in  her  hand. 


MY  LADY  NICO TINE.  2 19 

From  the  hammock  she  had  a  fine  view  of  the 
deck,  and  this  was  Gilray's  chance.  As  soon  as 
he  saw  her  comfortably  settled,  he  pulled  a  long 
face  and  climbed  on  deck.  There  he  walked  up 
and  down,  trying  to  look  the  image  of  despair. 
When  she  made  some  remark  to  him,  his  plan 
was  to  show  that,  though  he  answered  cor- 
dially, his  cheerfulness  was  the  result  of  a  terrible 
inward  struggle.  He  did  not  contrive  to  accom- 
plish this  if  he  was  waiting  for  her  observation  ; 
but  she  sometimes  took  him  unawares,  starting  a 
subject  in  which  he  was  interested.  Then,  for- 
getting his  character,  he  would  talk  eagerly  or 
jest  with  her  across  the  strip  of  water,  until  with 
a  start  he  remembered  what  he  had  become.  He 
would  seek  to  recover  himself  after  that ;  but  of 
course  it  was  too  late  to  create  a  really  lasting 
impression.  Even  when  she  left  him  alone, 
watching  him,  I  fear,  over  the  top  of  her  novel,  he 
disappointed  himself.  For  five  minutes  or  so 
everything  would  go  well ;  he  looked  as  dejected 
as  possible  ;  but  as  he  felt  he  was  succeeding  he 
became  so  self-satisfied  that  he  began  to  strut. 
A  pleased  expression  crossed  his  face,  and  instead 
of  allowing  his  head  to  hang  dismally,  he  put  it 
well  back.  Sometimes,  when  we  wanted  to  please 
him,  we  said  he  looked  as  glum  as  a  mute  at  a 
funeral.  Even  that,  however,  defeated  his  object, 
for  it  flattered  him  so  much  that  he  smiled  with 
gratification. 

Gilray  made  one  great  sacrifice  by  giving  up 
smoking,  though  not  indeed  such  a  sacrifice  as 
mine,  for  up  to  this  time  he  did  not  know  the 
Arcadia  Mixture.  Perhaps  the  only  time  he  really 
did  look  as  miserable  as  he  wished  was  late  at 
night  when  we  men  sat  up  for  a  second  last  pipe 


220  MY  LAD  Y  NICO TINE. 

before  turning  in.  He  looked  wistfully  at  us  from 
a  corner.  Yet  as  She  had  gone  to  rest,  cruel  fate 
made  this  of  little  account.  His  gloomy  face 
saddened  us  too,  and  we  tried  to  entice  him  to 
shame  by  promising  not  to  mention  it  to  the 
ladies.  He  almost  yielded,  and  showed  us  that 
while  we  smoked  he  had  been  holding  his  empty 
brier  in  his  right  hand.  For  a  moment  he  hesi- 
tated, then  said  fiercely  that  he  did  not  care  for 
smoking.  Next  night  he  was  shown  a  novel,  the 
hero  of  which  had  been  "refused."  Though  the 
lady's  hard-heartedness  had  a  terrible  effect  on  this 
fine  fellow,  he  "  strode  away  blowing  great 
clouds  into  the  air. "  ' '  Standing  there  smoking  in 
the  moonlight,"  the  authoress  says  in  her  next 
chapter,  "De  Courcy  was  a  strangely  romantic 
figure.  He  looked  like  a  man  who  had  done 
everything,  who  had  been  through  the  furnace 
and  had  not  come  out  of  it  unscathed."  This 
was  precisely  what  Gilray  wanted  to  look  like. 
Again  he  hesitated,  and  then  put  his  pipe  in  his 
pocket. 

It  was  now  that  I  approached  him  with  the 
Arcadia  Mixture.  I  seldom  recommend  the 
Arcadia  to  men  whom  I  do  not  know  intimately, 
lest  in  the  after  years  I  should  find  them  unworthy 
of  it  But  just  as  Aladdin  doubtless  rubbed  his 
lamp  at  times  for  show,  there  were  occasions 
when  I  was  ostentatiously  liberal.  If,  after  try- 
ing the  Arcadia,  the  lucky  smoker  to  whom  I 
presented  it  did  not  start  or  seize  my  hand,  or 
otherwise  show  that  something  exquisite  had 
come  into  his  life,  I  at  once  forgot  his  name  and 
his  existence.  I  approached  Gilray,  then,  and 
without  a  word  handed  him  my  pouch,  while  the 
others  drew  nearer.  Nothing  was  to  be  heard 


MY  LADY  NICOTINE.  « i 

but  the  water  oozing  out  and  in  beneath  the 
house-boat.  Gilray  pushed  the  tobacco  from 
him,  as  he  might  have  pushed  a  bag  of  dia- 
monds that  he  mistook  for  pebbles.  I  placed  it 
against  his  arm,  and  motioned  to  the  others  not 
to  look.  Then  I  sat  down  beside  Gilray,  and 
almost  smoked  into  his  eyes.  Soon  the  aroma 
reached  him,  and  rapture  struggled  into  his  face. 
Slowly  his  fingers  fastened  on  the  pouch.  He 
filled  his  pipe  without  knowing  what  he  was  do- 
ing, and  I  handed  him  a  lighted  spill.  He  took 
perhaps  three  puffs,  and  then  gave  me  a  look  of 
reverence  that  I  know  well.  It  only  comes  to  a 
man  once  in  all  its  glory — the  first  time  he  tries 
the  Arcadia  Mixture — but  it  never  altogether 
leaves  him. 

' '  Where  do  you  get  it  ?  "  Gilray  whispered,  in 
hoarse  delight. 

The  Arcadia  had  him  for  its  own. 


HARRIOT. 

I  HAVE  hinted  that  Harriot  was  our  sentimental 
member.  He  was  seldom  sentimental  until  after 
midnight,  and  then  only  when  he  and  I  were 
alone.  Why  he  should  have  chosen  me  as  the 
pail  into  which  to  pour  his  troubles  I  cannot  say. 
I  let  him  talk  on,  and  when  he  had  ended  I 
showed  him  plainly  that  I  had  been  thinking  most 
of  the  time  about  something  else.  Whether 
Harriot  was  entirely  a  humbug  or  the  most  con- 
scientious person  on  our  stair,  readers  may  de- 


222  MY  LAD  Y  NICO  TINE. 

cide.  He  was  fond  of  argument  if  you  did  not 
answer  him,  and  often  wanted  me  to  tell  him  if  I 
thought  he  was  in  love  ;  if  so,  why  did  I  think 
so;  if  not,  why  not.  What  makes  me  on  reflec- 
tion fancy  that  he  was  sincere  is  that  in  his  state- 
ments he  would  let  his  pipe  go  out. 
t  Of  course  I  cannot  give  his  words,  but  he 
would  wait  till  all  my  other  guests  had  gone,  then 
softly  lock  the  door,  and  returning  to  the  cane 
chair  empty  himself  in  some  such  way  as  this  : 

"  I  have  something  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about. 
Pass  me  a  spill.  Well,  it  is  this.  Before  I  came 
to  your  rooms  to-night  I  was  cleaning  my  pipe, 
when  all  at  once  it  struck  me  that  I  might  be  in 
love.  This  is  the  kind  of  shock  that  pulls  a  man 
up  and  together.  My  first  thought  was,  if  it  be 
love,  well  and  good  ;  I  shall  go  on.  As  a  gentle- 
man I  know  my  duty  both  to  her  and  to  myself. 
At  present,  however,  I  am  not  certain  which  she 
is.  In  love  there  are  no  degrees  ;  of  that  at  least 
I  feel  positive.  It  is  a  tempestuous,  surging 
passion,  or  it  is  nothing.  The  question  for  me, 
therefore,  is,  Is  this  the  beginning  of  a  tempestu- 
ous, surging  passion  ?  But  stop  ;  does  such  a 
passion  have  a  beginning  ?  Should  it  not  be  in 
flood  before  we  know  what  we  are  about  ?  I 
don't  want  you  to  answer. 

"One  of  my  difficulties  is  that  I  cannot  reason 
from  experience.  I  cannot  say  to  myself,  Dur- 
ing the  spring  of  1886,  and  again  in  October, 
1888,  your  breast  has  known  the  insurgence  of 
a  tempestuous  passion.  Do  you  now  note  the 
same  symptoms?  Have  you  experienced  a 
sudden  sinking  at  the  heart,  followed  by  thrills 
of  exultation  ?  Now  I  cannot  even  say  that  my 
appetite  has  fallen  off,  but  I  am  smoking  more 


MY  LADY  NICO TINE.  223 

than  ever,  and  it  is  notorious  that  I  experience 
sudden  chills  and  thrills.  Is  this  passion  ?  No, 
I  am  not  done  ;  I  have  only  begun. 

"  In  'As  You  Like  it,'  you  remember,  the  love 
symptoms  are  described  at  length.  But  is  Rosa- 
lind to  be  taken  seriously  ?  Besides,  though  she 
wore  boy's  clothes,  she  had  only  the  woman's 
point  of  view.  I  have  consulted  Stevenson's 
chapters  on  love  in  his  delightful  'Virginibus 
Puerisque,' and  one  of  them  says,  'Certainly,  if 
I  .could  help  it,  I  would  never  marry  a  wife  who 
wrote.'  Then  I  noticed  a  book  published  after 
that  one,  and  entitled,  '  The  New  Arabian  Nights, 
by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Robert  Louis  Stevenson.'  I 
shut  'Virginibus  Puerisque'  with  a  sigh,  and  put 
it  away. 

"But  this  inquiry  need  not,  I  feel  confident, 
lead  to  nothing.  Negatively  I  know  love  ;  for  I  do 
not  require  to  be  told  what  it  is  not,  and  I  have 
my  ideal.  Putting  my  knowledge  together  and 
surveying  it  dispassionately  in  the  mass,  I  am 
inclined  to  think  that  this  is  really  love. 

"I  may  lay  down  as  Proposition  I.  that  surg- 
ing, tempestuous  passion  comes  involuntarily. 
You  are  heart-whole,  when,  as  it  were,  the  gates 
of  your  bosom  open,  in  she  sweeps,  and  the  gates 
closes.  So  far  this  is  a  faithful  description  of  my 
case.  Whatever  it  is,  it  came  "without  any  desire 
or  volition  on  my  part,  and  it  looks  as  if  it  meant 
to  stay.  What  I  ask  myself  is — first,  What  is  it  ? 
secondly,  Where  is  it?  thirdly,  Who  is  it?  and 
fourthly,  What  shall  I  do  with  it  ?  I  have  thus 
my  work  cut  out  for  me. 

"What  is  it?  I  reply  that  I  am  stumped  at 
once,  unless  I  am  allowed  to  fix  upon  an  object 
definitely  and  precisely.  This,  no  doubt,  is  argu- 


224-  MY  LAD  Y  NICOTINE. 

ing  in  a  circle ;  but  Descartes  himself  assumed 
what  he  was  to  try  to  prove.  This,  then,  being 
permitted,  I  have  chosen  my  object,  and  we  can 
now  go  on  again.  What  is  it?  Some  might 
evade  the  difficulty  by  taking  a  middle  course. 
You  are  not,  they  might  say,  in  love  as  yet,  but 
you  are  on  the  brink  of  it.  The  lady  is  no  idol 
to  you  at  present,  but  neither  is  she  indifferent. 
You  would  not  walk  four  miles  in  wet  weather 
to  get  a  rose  from  her ;  but  if  she  did  present 
you  with  a  rose,  you  would  not  willingly  drop  it 
down  an  area.  In  short  you  have  all  but  lost 
your  heart.  To  this  I  reply  simply,  love  is  not  a 
process,  it  is  an  event.  You  may  unconsciously 
be  on  the  brink  of  it,  when  all  at  once  the  ground 
gives  way  beneath  you,  and  in  you  go.  The 
difference  between  love  and  not-love,  if  I  may  be 
allowed  the  word,  being  so  wide,  my  inquiry 
should  produce  decisive  results.  On  the  whole, 
therefore,  and  in  the  absence  of  direct  proof  to 
the  contrary,  I  believe  that  the  passion  of  love 
does  possess  me. 

"Where  is  it?  This  is  the  simplest  question 
of  the  four.  It  is  in  the  heart.  It  fills  the  heart 
to  overflowing,  so  that  if  there  were  one  drop 
more  the  heart  would  run  over.  Love  is  thus 
plainly  a  liquid  :  which  accounts  to  some  extent 
for  its  well-recognized  habit  of  surging.  Among 
its  effects  this  may  be  noted :  that  it  makes  you 
miserable  if  you  be  not  by  the  loved  one's  side. 
To  hold  her  hand  is  ecstasy,  to  press  it,  rapture. 
The  fond  lover — as  it  might  be  myself — sees  his 
beloved  depart  on  a  railway  journey  with  appre- 
hension. He  never  ceases  to  remember  that 
engines  burst  and  trains  run  off  the  line.  In  an 
agony  he  awaits  the  telegram  that  tells  him  she 


MY  LAD  Y  NICO TINE.  225 

has  reached  Shepherd's  Bush  in  safety.  When 
he  sees  her  talking,  as  if  she  liked  it,  to  another 
man,  he  is  torn,  he  is  rent  asunder,  he  is  dis- 
membered by  jealousy.  He  walks  beneath  her 
window  till  the  policeman  sees  him  home ;  and 
when  he  wakes  in  the  morning,  it  is  to  murmur 
her  name  to  himself  until  he  falls  asleep  again 
and  is  late  for  the  office.  Well,  do.  1  experience 
such  sensations,  or  do  I  not  ?  Is  this  love,  after 
all  ?  Where  are  the  spills  ? 

"I  have  been  taking  for  granted  that  I  know 
who  it  is.  But  is  this  wise?  Nothing  puzzles 
me  so  much  as  the  way  some  men  seem  to  know, 
by  intuition,  as  it  were,  which  is  the  woman  for 
whom  they  have  a  passion.  They  take  a  girl 
from  among  their  acquaintance,  and  never  seem 
to  understand  that  they  may  be  taking  the  wrong 
one.  However,  with  certain  reservations,  I  do 
not  think  I  go  too  far  in  saying  that  I  know  who 
she  is.  There  is  one  other,  indeed,  that  I  have 
sometimes  thought — but  it  fortunately  happens 
that  they  are  related,  so  that  in  any  case  I  can- 
not go  far  wrong.  After  I  have  seen  them  again, 
or  at  least  before  I  propose,  I  shall  decide  defi- 
nitely on  this  point.  * 

'•We  have  now  advanced  as  far  as  Query  IV. 
Now,  what  is  to  be  done  ?  Let  us  consider  this 
calmly.  In  the  first  place,  have  I  any  option  in 
the  matter,  or  is  love  a  hurricane  that  carries  one 
hither  and  thither  as  a  bottle  is  tossed  in  a  chop- 
ping sea?  I  reply  that  it  all  depends  on  myself. 
Rosalind  would  say  no  ;  that  we  are  without  con- 
trol over  love.  But  Rosalind  was  a  woman.  It 
is  probably  true  that  a  woman  cannot  conquer 
love.  Man,  being  her  ideal  in  the  abstract,  is 
irresistible  to  her  in  the  concrete.  But  man, 


226  MY  LAD  Y  NICO  TINE. 

being  an  intellectual  creature,  can  make  a  mag- 
nificent effort  and  cast  love  out.  Should  I  think  it 
advisable,  I  do  not  question  my  ability  to  open 
the  gates  of  my  heart  and  bid  her  go.  That 
would  be  a  serious  thing  for  her ;  and,  as  man  is 
powerful,  so,  I  think,  should  he  be  merciful.  She 
has,  no  doubt,  gained  admittance,  as  it  were, 
furtively  ;  but  can  I,  as  a  gentleman,  send  away 
a  weak,  confiding  woman  who  loves  me  simply 
because  she  cannot  help  it?  Nay,  more,  in  a 
pathetic  case  of  this  kind,  have  I  not  a  certain 
responsibility  ?  Does  not  her  attachment  to  me 
give  her  a  claim  upon  me?  She  saw  me,  and 
love  came  to  her.  She  looks  upon  me  as  the 
noblest  and  best  of  my  sex.  I  do  not  say  I  am  ; 
it  may  be  that  I  am  not.  But  I  have  the  child's 
happiness  in  my  hands  ;  can  I  trample  it  beneath 
my  feet?  It  seems  to  be  my  plain  duty  to  take 
her  to  me. 

"  But  there  are  others  to  consider.  For  me, 
would  it  not  be  the  better  part  to  show  her  that 
the  greatest  happiness  of  the  greatest  number 
should  be  my  first  consideration  ?  Certainly  there 
is  nothing  in  a  man  I  despise  more  than  conceit 
in  affairs  of  this  sort.  When  I  hear  one  of  my 
sex  boasting  of  his  '  conquests,'  J  turn  from  him 
in  disgust.  'Conquest'  implies  effort;  and  to 
lay  one's  self  out  for  victories  over  the  other  sex 
always  reminds  me  of  pigeon-shooting.  On  the 
other  hand,  we  must  make  allowances  for  our 
position  of  advantage.  These  little  ones  come  into 
contact  with  us  ;  they  see  us,  athletic,  beautiful,  in 
the  hunting-field  or  at  the  wicket ;  they  sit  beside  us 
at  dinner  and  listen  to  our  brilliant  conversation. 
They  have  met  us,  and  the  mischief  is  done. 
Every  man — except,  perhaps,  yourself  and  Jimmy 


MY  LAD  Y  NICOTINE.  227 

— knows  the  names  of  a  few  dear  girls  who  have 
lost  their  hearts  to  him — some  more,  some  less.  I 
do  not  pretend  to  be  in  a  different  position  from 
my  neighbors,  or  in  a  better  one.  To  some  slight 
extent  I  may  be  to  blame.  But,  after  all,  when 
a  man  sees  cheeks  redden  and  eyes  brighten  at 
his  approach,  he  loses  prudence.  At  the  time  he 
does  not  think  what  may  be  the  consequences. 
But  the  day  comes  when  he  sees  that  he  must 
take  heed  what  he  is  about.  He  communes  with 
himself  about  the  future,  and  if  he  be  a  man  of 
honor  he  maps  out  in  his  mind  the  several  courses 
it  is  allowed  him  to  follow,  and  chooses  that  one 
which  he  may  tread  with  least  pain  to  others. 
May  that  day  for  introspection  come  to  few  as  it 
has  come  to  me.  Love  is,  indeed,  a  madness  in 
the  brain.  Good-night." 

When  he  finished  I  would  wake  up,  open  the 
door  for  Harriot,  and  light  him  to  his  sleeping- 
chamber  with  a  spill. 


CHAPTER  IX 

JIMMY. 

WITH  the  exception  of  myself,  Jimmy  Moggridge 
was  no  doubt  the  most  silent  of  the  company  that 
met  so  frequently  in  my  rooms.  Just  as  Harriot's 
eyebrows  rose  if  the  cane  chair  was  not  empty 
when  he  strode  in,  Jimmy  held  that  he  had 
a  right  to  the  hearth-rug,  on  which  he  loved  to 
lie  prone,  his  back  turned  to  the  company  and 
his  eyes  on  his  pipe.  The  stem  was  a  long  cherry- 
wood,  but  the  bowl  was  meerschaum,  and  Jimmy, 


228  MY  LAD  Y  NICO TINE. 

as  he  smoked,  lay  on  the  alert,  as  it  were,  to  see 
the  meerschaum  coloring.  So  one  may  strain  his 
eyes  with  intent  eagerness  until  he  can  catch  the 
hour-hand  of  a  watch  in  action.  With  tobacco 
in  his  pocket  Jimmy  could  refill  his  pipe  without 
moving,  but  sometimes  he  crawled  along  the 
hearth-rug  to  let  the  firelight  play  more  exqui- 
sitely on  his  meerschaum  bowl.  In  time,  of  course, 
the  Arcadia  Mixture  made  him  more  and  more 
like  the  rest  of  us,  but  he  retained  his  individual- 
ity until  he  let  his  bowl  fall  off.  Otherwise  he 
only  differed  from  us  in  one  way.  When  he  saw 
a  match-box  he  always  extracted  a  few  matches 
and  put  them  dreamily  into  his  pocket.  There 
were  times  when,  with  a  sharp  blow  on  Jimmy's 
person,  we  could  doubtless  have  had  him  blazing 
like  a  chandelier. 

Jimmy  was  a  barrister — though  this  is  scarcely 
worth  mentioning — and  it  had  been  known  to  us 
for  years  that  he  made  a  living  by  contributing 
to  the  "Saturday  Review."  How  the  secret 
leaked  out  I.  cannot  say  with  certainty.  Jimmy 
never  forced  it  upon  us,  and  I  cannot  remember 
any  paragraphs  in  the  London  correspondence  of 
the  provincial  papers  coupling  his  name  with 
"Saturday"  articles.  On  the  other  hand,  I  dis- 
tinctly recall  having  to  wait  one  day  in  his  cham- 
bers while  Jimmy  was  shaving,  and  noticing 
accidentally  a  long,  bulky  envelope  on  his  table, 
with  the  "  Saturday  Review's  "  mystic  crest  on  it. 
It  was  addressed  to  Jimmy,  and  contained,  I  con- 
cluded, a  bundle  of  proofs.  That  was  so  long 
ago  as  1885.  If  further  evidence  is  required, 
there  is  the  undoubted  fact,  to  which  several  of 
us  could  take  oath,  that,  at  Oxford,  Jimmy  was 
notorious  for  his  sarcastic  pen — nearly  being  sent 


MY  LAD  Y  NICOTINE.  z 2$ 

down,  indeed,  for  the  same.  Again,  there  was 
the  certainty  that  for  years  Jimmy  had  been  en- 
gaged upon  literary  work  of  some  kind.  We  had 
been  with  him  buying  the  largest-sized  scribbling 
paper  in  the  market ;  we  had  heard  him  mutter- 
ing to  himself  as  if  in  pain  ;  and  we  had  seen  him 
correcting  proof-sheets.  When  we  caught  him  at 
them  he  always  thrust  the  proofs  into  a  drawer 
which  he  locked  by  putting  his  leg  on  it — for  the 
ordinary  lock  was  broken — and  remaining  in  that 
position  till  we  had  retired.  Though  he  rather 
shunned  the  subject  as  a  rule,  he  admitted  to  us 
that  the  work  was  journalism  and  not  a  sarcastic 
history  of  the  nineteenth  century,  on  which  we 
felt  he  would  come  out  strong.  Lastly,  Jimmy 
had  lost  the  brightness  of  his  youth,  and  was  be- 
come silent  and  moody,  which  is  well  known  to 
be  the  result  of  writing  satire. 

Were  it  not  so  notorious  that  the  thousands  who 
write  regularly  for  the  "  Saturday"  have  reasons 
of  their  own  for  keeping  it  dark  and  merely  ad- 
mitting the  impeachment  with  a  nod  or  smile, 
we  might  have  marveled  at  Jimmy's  reticence. 
There  were,  however,  moments  when  he  thawed 
so  far  as  practically  to  allow,  and  everyone  knows 
what  that  means,  that  the  "Saturday"  was  his 
chief  source  of  income.  "  Only,"  he  would  add, 
"  should  you  be  acquainted  with  the  editor,  don't 
mention  my  contributions  to  him."  From  this 
we  saw  that  Jimmy  and  the  editor  had  an  under- 
standing on  the  subject,  though  we  were  never 
agreed  which  of  them  it  was  who  had  sworn  the 
other  to  secrecy.  We  were  proud  of  Jimmy's 
connection  with  the  press,  and  every  week  we 
discussed  his  latest  article.  Jimmy  never  told  us, 
except  in  a  roundabout  way,  which  were  his 


230  MY  LAD  Y  MICOTIME. 

articles  ;  but  we  knew  his  style,  and  it  was  quite 
exhilarating  to  pick  out  his  contributions  week 
by  week.  We  were  never  baffled,  for  "Jimmy's 
touches"  were  unmistakable;  and,  "Have  you 
seen  Jimmy  this  week  in  the  '  Saturday'  on  Lewis 
Morris?"  or,  "I  say,  do  you  think  Buchanan 
knows  it  was  Jimmy  who  wrote  that  ? "  was  what 
we  said  when  we  had  lighted  our  pipes. 

Now  I  come  to  the  incident  that  drew  from 
Jimmy  his  extraordinary  statement.  I  was  smok- 
ing with  him  in  his  rooms  one  evening,  when  a 
clatter  at  his  door  was  followed  by  a  thud  on  the 
floor.  I  knew  as  well  as  Jimmy  what  had  happened. 
In  his  pre-"  Saturday"  days  he  had  no  letter-box, 
only  a  slit  in  the  door ;  and  through  this  we  used 
to  denounce  him  on  certain  occasions  when  we 
called  and  he  would  not  let  us  in.  Lately,  how- 
ever, he  had  fitted  up  a  letter-box  himself,  which 
kept  together  if  you  opened  the  door  gently,  but 
came  clattering  to  the  floor  under  the  weight  of 
heavy  letters.  The  letter  to  which  it  had  suc- 
cumbed this  evening  was  quite  a  package,  and 
could  even  have  been  used  as  a  missile.  Jimmy 
snatched  it  up  quickly,  evidently  knowing  the 
contents  by  their  bulk  ;  and  I  was  just  saying  to 
myself,  ' '  More  proofs  from  the  '  Saturday, ' "  when 
the  letter  burst  at  the  bottom,  and  in  a  moment 
a  score  of  smaller  letters  were  tumbling  about 
my  feet.  In  vain  did  Jimmy  entreat  me  to  let 
him  gather  them  up.  I  helped,  and  saw,  to  my 
bewilderment,  that  all  the  letters  were  addressed 
in  childish  hands  to  <f  Uncle  Jim,  care  of  Editor 
of  '  Mothers'  Pets. ' "  It  was  impossible  that 
Jimmy  could  have  so  many  nephews  and  nieces. 

Seeing  that  I  had  him,  Jimmy  advanced  to  the 
hearth-rug  as  if  about  to  make  his  statement; 


MY  LADY  NICOTINE.  431 

then  changed  his  mind,  and  thrusting  a  dozen  of 
the  letters  into  my  hands,  invited  me  to  read. 
The  first  letter  ran  :  "  Dearest  Uncle  Jim, — I  must 
tell  you  about  my  canary.  I  love  my  canary 
very  much.  It  is  a  yellow  canary,  and  it  sings 
so  sweetly.  I  keep  it  in  a  cage,  and  it  is  so 
tame.  Mamma  and  me  wishes  you  would  come 
and  see  us  and  our  canary.  Dear  Uncle  Jim,  I 
love  you. — Your  little  friend,  Milly  (aged  four 
years."  Here  is  the  second:  "  Dear  Uncle  Jim, 
— You  will  want  to  know  about  my  blackbird. 
It  sits  in  a  tree  and  picks  up  the  crumbs  on  the 
window,  and  Thomas  wants  to  shoot  it  for  eating 
the  cherries  ;  but  I  won't  let  Thomas  shoot  it,  for 
it  is  a  nice  blackbird,  and  I  have  wrote  all  this 
myself. — Your  loving  little  Bobby  (aged  five 
years)."  In  another,  Jacky  (aged  four  and  a 
half)  described  his  parrot,  and  I  have  also  vague 
recollections  of  Harry  (aged  six)  on  his  chaffinch, 
and  Archie  (five)  on  his  linnet.  "What  does  it 
mean  ? "  I  demanded  of  Jimmy,  who,  while  I 
read,  had  been  smoking  savagely.  "Don't  you 
see  they  are  in  for  the  prize  !  "  he  growled.  Then 
he  made  his  statement 

"I  have  never,"  Jimmy  said,  "contributed  to 
the  'Saturday,'  nor,  indeed,  to  any  well-known 
paper.  That,  however,  was  only  because  the 
editors  would  not  meet  me  half-way.  After  many 
disappointments,  fortune — whether  good  or  bad, 
I  cannot  say — introduced  me  to  the  editor  of 
'Mothers'  Pets,'  a  weekly  journal  whose  title 
sufficiently  suggests  its  character.  Though  you 
may  never  have  heard  of  it,  '  Mothers'  Pets '  has 
a  wide  circulation  and  is  a  great  property.  I  was 
asked  to  join  the  staff  under  the  name  of  'Uncle 
Jim,'  and  did  not  see  my  way  to  refuse.  I  in- 


2$?  MY  LADY  NICOTINE. 

augurated  a  new  feature.  Mothers' pets  were  cor- 
dially invited  to  correspond  with  me  on  topics  to 
be  suggested  week  by  week,  and  prizes  were  to 
be  given  for  the  best  letters.  This  feature  has 
been  an  enormous  success,  and  I  get  the  most 
affectionate  letters  from  mothers,  consulting  me 
about  teething  and  the  like,  every  week.  They 
say  that  I  am  dearer  to  their  children  than  most 
real  uncles,  and  they  often  urge  me  to  go  and 
stay  with  them.  There  are  lots  of  kisses  awaiting 
me.  I  also  get  similar  invitations  from  the  little 
beasts  themselves.  Pass  the  Arcadia." 


CHAPTER  X. 

SCRYMGEOUR. 

SCRYMGEOUR  was  an  artist  and  a  man  of  means, 
so  proud  of  his  profession  that  he  gave  all  his 
pictures  fancy  prices,  and  so  wealthy  that  he 
could  have  bought  them.  To  him  I  went  when 
I  wanted  money — though  it  must  not  be  thought 
that  I  borrowed.  In  the  days  of  the  Arcadia 
Mixture  I  had  no  bank  account.  As  my  checks 
dribbled  in  I  stuffed  them  into  a  torn  leather  case 
that  was  kept  together  by  a  piece  of  twine,  and 
when  Want  tapped  at  my  chamber  door,  I  drew 
out  the  check  that  seemed  most  willing  to  come, 
and  exchanged  with  Scrymgeour.  In  his  detesta- 
tion of  argument  Scrymgeour  resembled  myself, 
but  otherwise  we  differed  as  much  as  men  may 
differ  who  smoke  the  Arcadia.  He  read  little,  yet 
surprised  us  by  a  smattering  of  knowledge  about 
all  important  books  that  had  been  out  for  a  few 


MY  LADY  NICOTINE.  233 

months,  until  we  discovered  that  he  got  his  in> 
formation  from  a  friend  in  India.  He  had  also,  I 
remember,  a  romantic  notion  that  Africa  might 
be  civijized  by  the  Arcadia  Mixture.  As  I  shall 
explain  presently,  his  devotion  to  the  Arcadia 
very  nearly  married  him  against  his  will ;  but 
first  I  must  describe  his  boudoir. 

We  always  called  it  Scrymgeour's  boudoir 
after  it  had  ceased  to  deserve  the  censure,  just  as 
we  called  Moggridge  Jimmy  because  he  was 
Jimmy  to  some  of  us  as  a  boy.  Scrymgeour 
deserted  his  fine  rooms  in  Bays  water  for  the  inn 
some  months  after  the  Arcadia  Mixture  had  recon- 
structed him,  but  his  chambers  were  the  best  on 
our  stair,  and  with  the  help  of  a  workman  from 
the  Japanese  Village  he  converted  them  into  an 
Oriental  dream.  Our  housekeeper  thought  little 
of  the  rest  of  us  while  the  boudoir  was  there  to 
be  gazed  at,  and  even  William  John  would  not 
spill  the  coffee  in  it.  When  the  boudoir  was  ready 
for  inspection,  Scrymgeour  led  me  to  it,  and  as 
the  door  opened  I  suddenly  remembered  that  my 
boots  were  muddy.  The  ceiling  was  a  great 
Japanese  Christmas  card  representing  the  heavens ; 
heavy  clouds  floated  round  a  pale  moon,  and 
with  the  dusk  the  stars  came  out.  The  walls, 
instead  of  being  papered,  were  hung  with  a  soft 
Japanese  cloth,  and  fantastic  figures  frolicked 
round  a  fireplace  that  held  a  bamboo  fan.  There 
was  no  mantelpiece.  The  room  was  very  small ; 
but  when  you  wanted  a  blue  velvet  desk  to  write 
on,  you  had  only  to  press  a  spring  against  the 
wall ;  and  if  you  leaned  upon  the  desk  the  Jap- 
anese workmen  were  ready  to  make  you  a  new 
one.  There  were  springs  everywhere,  shaped 
like  birds  and  mice  and  butterflies;  and  when 


234  MY  LADY  NICOTINE. 

you  touched  one  of  them  something  was  sure  to 
come  out.  Blood-colored  curtains  separated  the 
room  from  the  alcove  where  Scrymgeour  was  to 
rest  by  night,  and  his  bed  became  a  bath  by 
simply  turning  it  upside  down.  On  one  side  of 
the  bed  was  a  wine-bin,  with  a  ladder  running  up 
to  it.  The  door  of  the  sitting-room  was  a  sym- 
phony in  gray,  with  shadowy  reptiles  crawling 
across  the  panels  ;  and  the  floor — dark,  mysteri- 
ous— presented  a  fanciful  picture  of  the  infernal 
regions.  Scrymgeour  said  hopefully  that  the 
place  would  look  cozier  after  he  had  his  pictures 
in  it ;  but  he  stopped  me  when  I  began  to  fill  my 
pipe.  He  believed,  he  said,  that  smoking  was 
not  a  Japanese  custom  ;  and  there  was  no  use 
taking  Japanese  chambers  unless  you  lived  up  to 
them.  Here  was  a  revelation.  Scrymgeour  pro- 
posed to  live  his  life  in  harmony  with  these  rooms. 
I  felt  too  sad  at  heart  to  say  much  to  him  then, 
but,  promising  to  look  in  again  soon,  I  shook 
hands  with  my  unhappy  friend  and  went  away. 

It  happened,  however,  that  Scrymgeour  had 
been  several  times  in  my  rooms  before  I  was  able 
to  visit  him  again.  My  hand  was  on  his  door- 
bell when  I  noticed  a  figure  I  thought  I  knew 
lounging  at  the  foot  of  the  stair.  It  was  Scrym- 
geour himself,  and  he  was  smoking  the  Arcadia. 
We  greeted  each  other  languidly  on  the  doorstep, 
Scrymgeour  assuring  me  that  "Japan  in  London  " 
was  a  grand  idea.  It  gave  a  zest  to  life,  banish- 
ing the  poor,  weary  conventionalities  of  one's 
surroundings.  This  was  said  while  we  still  stood 
at  the  door,  and  I  began  to  wonder  why  Scrym- 
geour did  not  enter  his  rooms.  "A  beautiful 
night !  "  he  said,  rapturously.  A  cruel  east  wind 
was  blowing.  He  insisted  that  evening  was  the 


MY  LADY  MCOTIN&.  2$$ 

time  for  thinking  and  that  east  winds  brace  you 
up.  Would  I  have  a  cigar  ?  I  would  if  he  asked 
me  inside  to  smoke  it.  My  friend  sighed.  "I 
thought  I  told  you,"  he  said,  "  that  I  don't  smoke 
in  my  chambers.  It  isn't  the  thing."  Then  he 
explained,  hesitatingly,  that  he  hadn't  given  up 
smoking.  "I  come  down  here,"  he  said,  "with 
my  pipe,  and  walk  up  and  down.  I  assure  you 
it  is  quite  a  new  sensation,  and  I  much  prefer  it 
to  lolling  in  an  easy-chair."  The  poor  fellow 
shivered  as  he  spoke,  and  I  noticed  that  his  great- 
coat was  tightly  buttoned  up  to  the  throat.  He 
had  a  hacking  cough  and  his  teeth  were  chatter- 
ing. "Let  us  go  in,"  I  said ;  "I  don't  want  to 
smoke."  He  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe, 
and  opened  his  door  with  an  affectation  of 
gayety. 

The  room  looked  somewhat  more  home-like 
now,  but  it  was  very  cold.  Scrymgeour  had  no 
fire  yet.  He  had  been  told  that  the  smoke  would 
blacken  his  moon.  Besides,  I  question  if  he 
would  have  dared  to  remove  the  fan  from  the  fire- 
place without  consulting  a  Japanese  authority. 
He  did  not  even  know  whether  the  Japanese 
burned  coal.  I  missed  a  number  of  the  articles  of 
furniture  that  had  graced  his  former  rooms.  The 
easels  were  gone  ;  there  were  none  of  the  old 
canvases  standing  against  the  wall,  and  he  had 
exchanged  his  comfortable,  plain  old  screen  for 
one  with  lizards  crawling  over  it.  "It  would 
never  have  done,"  he  explained,  "to  spoil  the 
room  with  English  things,  so  I  got  in  some  more 
Japanese  furniture." 

I  asked  him  if  he  had  sold  his  canvasss  ; 
whereupon  he  signed  me  to  follow  him  to  the 
wine-bin.  It  was  full  of  them.  There  were  no 


236  MY  LADY  NICOTINE. 

newspapers  lying  about ;  but  Scrymgeour  hoped 
to  manage  to  take  one  in  by  and  by.  He  was 
only  feeling  his  way  at  present,  he  said.  In  the 
dim  light  shed  by  a  Japanese,  lamp,  I  tripped 
over  a  rainbow-colored  slipper  that  tapered  to  the 
hee  and  turned  up  at  the  toe.  "I  wonder  you 
can  get  into  these  things,"  I  whispered,  for  the 
place  depressed  me  ;  and  he  answered,  with  sim- 
ilar caution,  that  he  couldn't.  "I  keep  them 
lying  about,"  he  said,  confidentially  ;  "but  after 
I  think  nobody  is  likely  to  call  I  put  on  an  old 
pair  of  English  ones."  At  this  point  the  house- 
keeper knocked  at  the  door,  and  Scrymgeour 
sprung  like  an  acrobat  into  a  Japanese  dressing- 
gown  before  he  cried  ' '  Come  in  !  "  As  I  left  I 
asked  him  how  he  felt  now,  and  he  said  that  he 
had  never  been  so  happy  in  his  life.  But  his  hand 
was  hot,  and  he  did  not  look  me  in  the  face. 

Nearly  a  month  elapsed  before  I  looked  in 
again.  The  unfortunate  man  had  now  a  Japanese 
rug  over  his  legs  to  keep  out  the  cold,  and  he 
was  gazing  dejectedly  at  an  outlandish  mess 
which  he  called  his  lunch.  He  insisted  that  it 
was  not  at  all  bad ;  but  it  had  evidently  been  on 
the  table  some  time  when  I  called,  and  he  had 
not  even  tasted  it.  He  ordered  coffee  for  my 
benefit,  but  I  do  not  care  for  coffee  that  has  salt 
in  it  instead  of  sugar.  I  said  that  I  had  merely 
looked  in  to  ask  him  to  an  early  dinner  at  the 
club,  and  it  was  touching  to  see  how  he  grasped 
at  the  idea.  So  complete,  however,  was  his  sub- 
jection to  that  terrible  housekeeper,  who  believed 
in  his  fad,  that  he  dared  not  send  back  her  dishes 
untasted.  As  a  compromise  I  suggested  that  he 
could  wrap  up  some  of  the  stuff  in  paper  and 
drop  it  quietly  into  the  gutter.  We  sallied  forth, 


MY  LAD  Y  NICOTINE.  237 

and  I  found  him  so  weak  that  he  had  to  be  as- 
sisted into  a  hansom.  He  still  maintained,  how- 
ever, that  Japanese  chambers  were  worth  mak- 
ing some  sacrifice  for ;  and  when  the  other  Arca- 
dians saw  his  condition  they  had  the  delicacy  not 
to  contradict  him.  They  thought  it  was  con- 
sumption. 

If  we  had  not  taken  Scrymgeour  in  hand  I 
dare  not  think  what  his  craze  might  have  reduced 
him  to.  A  friend  asked  him  into  the  country 
for  ten  days,  and  of  course  he  was  glad  to  go. 
As  it  happened,  my  chambers  were  being  repa- 
pered  at  the  time,  and  Scrymgeour  gave  me  per- 
mission to  occupy  his  rooms  until  his  return. 
The  other  Arcadians  agreed  to  meet  me  there 
nightly,  and  they  were  indefatigable  in  their 
efforts  to  put  the  boudoir  to  rights.  Jimmy  wrote 
letters  to  editors,  of  a  most  cutting  nature,  on  the 
moon,  breaking  the  table  as  he  stepped  on  and 
off  it,  and  we  gave  the  butterflies  to  William 
John.  The  reptiles  had  to  crawl  off  the  door, 
and  we  made  pipe-lights  of  the  Japanese  fans. 
Harriot  shot  the  candles  at  the  mice  and  birds ; 
and  Gilray,  by  improvising  an  entertainment  be- 
hind the  blood-red  curtains,  contrived  to  give 
them  the  dilapidated  appearance  without  which 
there  is  no  real  comfort.  In  short,  the  boudoir 
soon  assumed  such  a  homely  aspect  that  Scrym- 
geour on  his  return  did  not  recognize  it.  When 
he  realized  where  he  was  he  lighted  up  at  once. 


2^8  ^y  LAD  Y  N2COTIN&. 

CHAPTER  XL 

HIS  WIFE'S  CIGARS. 

THOUGH  Pettigrew,  who  is  a  much  more  suc- 
cessful journalist  than  Jimmy,  says  pointedly  of 
his  wife  that  she  encourages  his  smoking  instead 
of  putting  an  end  to  it,  I  happen  to  know  that  he 
has  cupboard  skeletons.  Pettigrew  has  been 
married  for  years,  and  frequently  boasted  of  his 
wife's  interest  in  smoking,  until  one  night  an  ac- 
cident revealed  the  true  state  of  matters  to  me. 
Late  in  the  night,  when  traffic  is  hushed  and  the 
river  has  at  last  a  chance  of  making  itself  heard, 
Pettigrew's  window  opens  cautiously,  and  he 
casts  something  wrapped  in  newspaper  into  the 
night.  The  window  is  then  softly  closed,  and 
all  is  again  quiet.  At  other  times  Pettigrew  steals 
along  the  curbstone,  dropping  his  skeletons  one 
by  one.  Nevertheless,  his  cupboard  beneath  the 
bookcase  is  so  crammed  that  he  dreams  the  lock 
has  given  way.  The  key  is  always  in  his  pocket, 
yet  when  his  children  approach  the  cupboard  he 
orders  them  away,  so  fearful  is  he  of  something 
happening.  When  his  wife  has  retired  he  some- 
times unlocks  the  cupboard  with  nervous  hand, 
when  the  door  bursts  gladly  open,  and  the  things 
roll  on  to  the  carpet.  They  are  the  cigars  his 
wife  gives  him  as  birthday  presents,  on  the  an- 
niversary of  his  marriage,  and  at  other  times,  and 
such  a  model  wife  is  she  that  he  would  do  any- 
thing for  her  except  smoke  them.  They  are  Cele- 
bros,  Regalia  Rothschilds,  twelve  and  six  the 


MY  LADY  NICO TINE.  239 

hundred  I  discovered  Pettigrew's  secret  one 
night,  when,  as  I  was  passing  his  house,  a  pack- 
age of  Celebros  alighted  on  my  head.  I  demand- 
ed an  explanation,  and  I  got  it  on  the  promise 
that  I  would  not  mention  the  matter  to  the  other 
Arcadians. 

' '  Several  years  having  elapsed, "  said  Pettigrew, 
"since  I  pretended  to  smoke  and  enjoy  my  first 
Celebro,  I  could  not  now  undeceive  my  wife — it 
would  be  such  a  blow  to  her.  At  the  time  it  could 
have  been  done  easily.  She  began  by  making  trial 
of  a  few.  There  were  seven  of  them  in  an  en- 
velope ;  and  I  knew  at  once  that  she  had  got  them 
for  a  shilling.  She  had  heard  me  saying  that 
eightpence  is  a  sad  price  to  pay  for  a  cigar 
— I  prefer  them  at  tenpence — and  a  few  days 
afterward  she  produced  her  first  Celebros.  Each 
of  them  had,  and  has,  a  gold  ribbon  round  it, 
bearing  the  legend,  '  Non  plus  ultra.'  She  was 
shy  and  timid  at  that  time,  and  I  thought  it  very 
brave  of  her  to  go  into  the  shop  herself  and  ask 
for  the  Celebros,  as  advertised;  so  I  thanked  her 
warmly.  When  she  saw  me  slipping  them  into 
my  pocket  she  looked  disappointed,  and  said 
that  she  would  like  to  see  me  smoking  one.  My 
reply  would  have  been  that  I  never  cared  to 
smoke  in  the  open  air,  if  she  had  not  often  seen 
me  do  so.  Besides,  I  wanted  to  please  her  very 
much  ;  and  if  what  I  did  was  weak  I  have  been 
severely  punished  for  it.  The  pocket  into  which 
I  had  thrust  the  Celebros  also  contained  my  cigar- 
case  ;  and  with  my  hand  in  the  pocket  I  covertly 
felt  for  a  Villar  y  Villar  and  squeezed  it  into  the  en- 
velope. This  I  then  drew  forth,  took  out  the  cigar, 
as  distinguished  from  the  Celebros,  and  smoked  it 
with  unfeigned  content.  My  wife  watched  me 


240  MY  LADY  NICOTINE. 

eagerly,  asking  six  or  eight  times  how  I  liked  it. 
From  the  way  she  talked  of  fine  rich  bouquet  and 
nutty  flavor  I  gathered  that  she  had  been  in  con- 
versation with  the  tobacconist,  and  I  told  her  the 
cigars  were  excellent.  Yes,  they  were  as  choice 
a  brand  as  I  had  ever  smoked.  She  clapped  her 
hands  joyously  at  that,  and  said  that  if  she  had  not 
made  up  her  mind  never  to  do  so  she  would  tell 
me  what  they  cost.  Next  she  asked  me  to  guess 
the  price  ;  I  answered  eighty  shillings  a  hun- 
dred ;  and  then  she  confessed  that  she  got  the 
seven  for  a  shilling.  On  our  way  home  she  made 
arch  remarks  about  men  who  judged  cigars 
simply  by  their  price.  I  laughed  gayly  in  reply, 
begging  her  not  to  be  too  hard  on  me ;  and  I  did 
not  even  feel  uneasy  when  she  remarked  that  of 
course  I  would  never  buy  those  horridly  expen- 
sive Villar  y  Villars  again.  When  I  left  her  I 
gave  the  Celebros  to  an  acquaintance  against 
whom  I  had  long  had  a  grudge — we  have  not 
spoken  since — but  I  preserved  the  envelope  as  a 
pretty  keepsake.  This,  you  see,  happened  shortly 
before  our  marriage. 

"  I  have  had  a  consignment  of  Celebros  every 
month  or  two  since  then,  and,  dispose  of  them 
quietly  as  I  may,  they  are  accumulating  in  the 
cupboard.  I  despise  myself;  but  my  guile  was 
kindly  meant  at  first,  and  every  thoughtful  man 
will  see  the  difficulties  in  the  way  of  a  confession 
now.  Who  can  say  what  might  happen  if  I  were 
to  fling  that  cupboard  door  open  in  presence  of 
my  wife  ?  I  smoke  less  than  I  used  to  do  ;  for 
if  I  were  to  buy  my  cigars  by  the  box  I  could  not 
get  them  smuggled  into  the  house.  Besides,  she 
would  know — I  don't  say  how,  I  merely  make  the 
statement — that  I  had  been  buying  cigars.  So  I 


MY  LAD  Y  NICOTINE.  241 

get  half  a  dozen  at  a  time.  Perhaps  you  will 
sympathize  with  me  when  I  say  that  I  have  had 
to  abandon  my  favorite  brand.  I  cannot  get 
Villar  y  Villars  that  look  like  Celebros,  and  my 
wife  is  quicker  in  those  matters  than  she  used  to 
be.  One  day,  for  instance,  she  noticed  that  the 
cigars  in  my  case  had  not  the  gold  ribbon  round 
them,  and  I  almost  fancied  she  became  suspi- 
cious. I  explained  that  the  ribbon  was  perhaps  a 
little  ostentatious  ;  but  she  said  it  was  an  intima- 
tion of  nutty  flavor  :  and  now  I  take  ribbons  off 
the  Celebros  and  put  them  on  the  other  cigars. 
The  boxes  in  which  the  Celebros  arrive  have  a 
picturesque  design  on  the  lid  and  a  good  deal  of 
lace  frilling  round  the  edge,  and  she  likes  to  have 
a  box  lying  about.  The  top  layer  of  that  box  is 
cigars  in  gold  ribbons,  placed  there  by  myself, 
and  underneath  are  the  Celebros.  I  never  get 
down  to  the  Celebros. 

"For  a  long  time  my  secret  was  locked  in  my 
breast  as  carefully  as  I  shall  lock  my  next  week's 
gift  away  in  the  cupboard,  if  I  can  find  room  for 
it  ;  but  a  few  of  my  most  intimate  friends  have 
an  inkling  of  it  now.  When  my  friends  drop  in 
I  am  compelled  to  push  the  Celebro  box  toward 
them,  and  if  they  would  simply  take  a  cigar  and 
ask  no  questions  all  would  be  well ;  for,  as  I  have 
said,  there  are  cigars  on  the  top.  But  they  spoil 
everything  by  remarking  that  they  have  not  seen 
the  brand  before.  Should  my  wife  not  be  present 
this  is  immaterial,  for  I  have  long  had  a  reputa- 
tion of  keeping  good  cigars.  Then  I  merely  re- 
mark that  it  is  a  new  brand  ;  and  they  smoke, 
probably  observing  that  it  reminds  them  of  a  Ca- 
bana, which  is  natural,  seeing  that  it  is  a  Cabana 
in  disguise.  If  my  wife  is  present,  however,  she 
16 


242  MY  LAD  Y  NICO TINE. 

comes  forward  smiling,  and  remarks,  with  a  fond 
look  in  my  direction,  that  they  are  her  birthday 
present  to  her  Jack.  Then  they  start  back  and 
say  they  always  smoke  a  pipe.  These  Celebros 
were  making  me  a  bad  name  among  my  friends, 
so  I  have  given  a  few  of  them  to  understand — I 
don't  care  to  put  it  more  plainly — that  if  they  will 
take  a  cigar  from  the  top  layer  they  will  find  it 
all  right.  One  of  them,  however,  has  a  personal 
ill-will  to  me  because  my  wife  told  his  wife  that 
I  preferred  Celebro  cigars  at  twelve  and  six  a 
hundred  to  any  other.  Now  he  is  expected  to 
smoke  the  same  ;  and  he  takes  his  revenge  by 
ostentatiously  offering  me  a  Celebro  when  I  call 
on  him." 


CHAPTER  XII. 
GILRAY'S  FLOWER-POT. 

I  CHARGE  Gilray's  unreasonableness  to  his  ig- 
noble passion  for  cigarettes  ;  and  the  story  of  his 
flower-pot  has  therefore  an  obvious  moral.  The 
want  of  dignity  he  displayed  about  that  flower- 
pot, on  his  return  to  London,  would  have  made 
any  one  sorry  for  him.  I  had  my  own  work  to 
look  after,  and  really  could  not  be  tending  his 
chrysanthemum  all  day.  After  he  came  back, 
however,  there  was  no  reasoning  with  him,  and 
I  admit  that  I  never  did  water  his  plant,  though 
always  intending  to  do  so. 

The  great  mistake  was  in  not  leaving  the 
flower-pot  in  charge  of  William  John.  No  doubt 
I  readily  promised  to  attend  to  it,  but  Gilray  de- 
ceived me  by  speaking  as  if  the  watering  of  a 


MY  LADY  NICOTINE.  2 43 

plant  was  the  merest  pastime.  He  had  to  leave 
London  for  a  short  provincial  tour,  and,  as  I  see 
now,  took  advantage  of  my  good  nature. 

As  Gilray  had  owned  his  flower-pot  for  several 
months,  during  which  time  (I  take  him  at  his 
word)  he  had  watered  it  daily,  he  must  have 
known  he  was  misleading  me.  He  said  that  you 
got  into  the  way  of  watering  a  flower-pot  regu- 
larly just  as  you  wind  up  your  watch.  That  cer- 
tainly is  not  the  case.  I  always  wind  up  my 
watch,  and  I  never  watered  the  flower-pot.  Of 
course,  if  I  had  been  living  in  Gilray's  rooms  with 
the  thing  always  before  my  eyes  I  might  have 
done  so.  I  proposed  to  take  it  into  my  chambers 
at  the  time,  but  he  would  not  hear  of  that. 
Why  ?  How  Gilray  came  by  this  chrysanthemum 
I  do  not  inquire  ;  but  whether,  in  the  circum- 
stances, he  should  not  have  made  a  clean  breast 
of  it  to  me  is  another  matter.  Undoubtedly  it 
was  an  unusual  thing  to  put  a  man  to  the  trouble 
of  watering  a  chrysanthemum  daily  without  giv- 
ing him  its  history.  My  own  belief  has  always 
been  that  he  got  it  in  exchange  for  a  pair  of  boots 
and  his  old  dressing-gown.  He  hints  that  it  was 
a  present ;  but,  as  one  who  knows  him  well,  I 
may  say  that  he  is  the  last  person  a  lady  would 
be  likely  to  give  a  chrysanthemum  to.  Besides, 
if  he  was  so  proud  of  the  plant  he  should  have 
stayed  at  home  and  watered  it  himself. 

He  says  that  I  never  meant  to  water  it,  which 
is  not  only  a  mistake,  but  unkind.  My  plan  was 
to  run  downstairs  immediately  after  dinner  every 
evening  and  give  it  a  thorough  watering.  One 
thing  or  another,  however,  came  in  the  way.  I 
often  remembered  about  the  chrysanthemum 
while  I  was  in  the  office ;  but  even  Gilray  could 


244  MY  LAD  Y  NTCO  TINE. 

hardly  have  expected  me  to  ask  leave  of  absence 
merely  to  run  home  and  water  his  plant.  You 
must  draw  the  line  somewhere,  even  in  a  govern- 
ment office.  When  I  reached  home  I  was  tired, 
inclined  to  take  things  easily,  and  not  at  all  in  a 
proper  condition  for  watering  flower-pots.  Then 
Arcadians  would  drop  in.  I  put  it  to  any  sensible 
man  or  woman,  could  I  have  been  expected  to 
give  up  my  friends  for  the  sake  of  a  chrysan- 
themum ?  Again,  it  was  my  custom  of  an  even- 
ing, if  not  disturbed,  to  retire  with  my  pipe  into 
my  cane  chair,  and  there  pass  the  hours  commun- 
ing with  great  minds,  or,  when  the  mood  was  on 
me,  trifling  with  a  novel.  Often  when  I  was  in 
the  middle  of  a  chapter  Gilray's  flower-pot  stood 
•#p  before  my  eyes  crying  for  water.  He  does 
not  believe  this,  but  it  is  the  solemn  truth.  At 
those  moments  it  was  touch  and  go,  whether  I 
watered  his  chrysanthemum  or  not.  Where  I 
lost  myself  was  in  not  hurrying  to  his  rooms 
at  once  with  a  tumbler.  I  said  to  myself  that  I 
would  go  when  I  had  finished  my  pipe  ;  but  by 
that  time  the  flower-pot  had  escaped  my  memory. 
This  may  have  been  weakness  ;  all  I  know  is 
that  I  should  have  saved  myself  much  annoyance 
if  I  had  risen  and  watered  the  chrysanthemum 
there  and  then.  But  would  it  not  have  been 
rather  hard  on  me  to  have  had  to  forsake  my 
books  for  the  sake  of  Gilray's  flowers  and  flower- 
pots and  plants  and  things.  What  right  has'  a 
man  to  go  and  make  a  garden  of  his  chambers  ? 

All  the  three  weeks  he  was  away,  Gilray  kept 
pestering  me  with  letters  about  his  chrysanthe- 
mum. He  seemed  to  have  no  faith  in  me — a  de- 
testable thing  in  a  man  who  calls  himself  your 
friend.  I  had  promised  to  water  his  flower-pot ; 


Mr  LAD  Y  NICO TIN&  245 

and  between  friends  a  promise  is  surely  sufficient 
It  is  not  so,  however,  when  Gilray  is  one  of 
them.  I  soon  hated  the  sight  of  my  name  in  his 
handwriting.  It  was  not  as  if  he  had  said  out- 
right that  he  wrote  entirely  to  know  whether  I 
was  watering  his  plant.  His  references  to  it 
were  introduced  with  all  the  appearance  of  after- 
thoughts. Often  they  took  the  form  of  post- 
scripts :  ' '  By  the  way,  are  you  watering  my 
chrysanthemum?"  or,  "The  chrysanthemum 
ought  to  be  a  beauty  by  this  time  ;  "  or,  "You 
must  be  quite  an  adept  now  at  watering  plants." 
Gilray  declares  now  that,  in  answer  to  one  of 
these  ingenious  epistles,  I  wrote  to  him  saying 
that  "  I  had  just  been  watering  his  chrysanthe- 
mum." My  belief  is  that  I  did  no  such  thing  ; 
or,  if  I  did,  I  meant  to  water  it  as  soon  as  I  had 
finished  my  letter.  He  has  never  been  able  to 
bring  this  home  tome,  he  says,  because  he  burned 
my  correspondence.  As  if  a  business  man  would 
destroy  such  a  letter.  It  was  yet  more  annoying 
when  Gilray  took  to  post-cards.  To  hear  the 
postman's  knock  and  then  discover,  when  you 
are  expecting  an  important  communication,  that 
it  is  only  a  post-card  about  a  flower-pot — that  is 
really  too  bad.  And  then  I  consider  that  some 
of  the  post-cards  bordered  upon  insult  One  of 
them  said,  ' '  What  about  chrysanthemum  ? — reply 
at  once."  This  was  just  like  Gilray's  overbear- 
ing way  ;  but  I  answered  politely,  and  so  far  as 
I  knew,  truthfully,  "Chrysanthemum  all  right" 

Knowing  that  there  was  no  explaining  things 
to  Gilray,  I  redoubled  my  exertions  to  water  his 
flower-pot  as  the  day  for  his  return  drew  near. 
Once,  indeed,  when  I  rang  for  water,  I  could  not 
for  the  life  of  me  remember  what  I  wanted  it 


246  MY  LADY  NICO TINE. 

for  when  it  was  brought.  Had  I  had  any  fore- 
thought I  should  have  left  the  tumbler  stand  just 
as  it  was  to  show  it  to  Gilray  on  his  return.  But, 
unfortunately,  William  John  had  misunderstood 
What  I  wanted  the  water  for,  and  put  a  decanter 
down  beside  it.  Another  time  I  was  actually  on 
the  stair  rushing  to  Gilray's  door,  when  I  met  the 
houskeeper,  and,  stopping  to  talk  to  her,  lost  my 
opportunity  again.  To  show  how  honestly  anx- 
ious I  was  to  fulfill  my  promise,  I  need  only  add 
that  I  was  several  times  awakened  in  the  watches 
of  the  night  by  a  haunting  consciousness  that  I 
had  forgotten  to  water  Gilray's  flower-pot.  On 
these  occasions  I  spared  no  trouble  to  remember 
again  in  the  morning.  I  reached  out  of  bed  to  a 
chair  and  turned  it  upside  down,  so  that  the  sight 
of  it  when  I  rose  might  remind  me  that  I  had 
something  to  do.  With  the  same  object  I  crossed 
the  tongs  and  poker  on  the  floor.  Gilray  main- 
tains that  instead  of  playing  "  fool's  tricks  "  like 
these  ("fool's  tricks  !  ")  I  should  have  got  up  and 
gone  at  once  to  his  rooms  with  my  water-bottle. 
What  ?  and  disturbed  my  neighbors  ?  Besides, 
could  I  reasonably  be  expected  to  risk  catching 
my  death  of  cold  for  the  sake  of  a  wretched  chrys- 
anthemum ?  One  reads  of  men  doing  such 
things  for  young  ladies  who  seek  lilies  in  danger- 
ous ponds  or  edelweiss  on  overhanging  cliffs.  But 
Gilray  was  not  my  sweetheart,  nor,  I  feel  certain, 
any  other  person's. 

I  come  now  to  the  day  prior  to  Gilray's  return. 
I  had  just  reached  the  office  when  I  remembered 
about  the  chrysanthemum.  It  was  my  last 
chance.  If  I  watered  it  once  I  should  be  in  a 
position  to  state  that,  whatever  condition  it  might 
be  in,  I  had  ccrt.inly  been  watering  it.  I  jumped 


MY  LAD  Y  N1CO  TINE.  247 

into  a  hansom,  told  the  cabby  to  drive  to  the 
inn,  and  twenty  minutes  afterward  had  one  hand 
on  Gilray's  door,  while  the  other  held  the  largest 
water-can  in  the  house.  Opening  the  door  I 
rushed  in.  The  can  nearly  fell  from  my  hand. 
There  was  no  flower-pot !  I  rang  the  bell.  "  Mr. 
Gilray's  chrysanthemum  !  "  I  cried.  What  do 
you  think  William  John  said?  He  coolly  told 
me  that  the  plant  was  dead,  and  had  been  flung 
out  days  ago.  I  went  to  the  theater  that  night  to 
keep  myself  from  thinking.  All  next  day  I  con- 
trived to  remain  out  of  Gilray's  sight.  When  we 
met  he  was  stiff  and  polite.  He  did  not  say 
a  word  about  the  chrysanthemum  for  a  week,  and 
then  it  all  came  out  with  a  rush.  I  let  him  talk. 
With  the  servants  flinging  out  the  flower-pots 
faster  than  I  Could  water  them,  what  more  could  I 
have  done  ?  A  coolness  between  us  was  inevit- 
able. This  I  regretted,  but  my  mind  was  made 
up  on  one  point :  I  would  never  do  Gilray  a 
favor  again. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE  GRANDEST  SCENE   IN  HISTORY. 

THOUGH  Scrymgeour  only  painted  in  water- 
colors,  I  think — I  never  looked  at  his  pictures — 
he  had  one  superb  idea,  which  we  often  advised 
him  to  carry  out.  When  he  first  mentioned  it  the 
room  became  comparatively  animated,  so  much 
struck  were  we  all,  and  we  entreated  him  to  retire 
to  Stratford  for  a  few  months  before  beginning 
the  picture.  His  idea  was  to  paint  Shakespeare 
smoking  his  first  pipe  of  the  Arcadia  Mixture, 


248  MY  LADY  NICO TINE. 

Many  hundreds  of  volumes  have  been  written 
about  the  glories  of  the  Elizabethan  age,  the  sub- 
lime period  in  our  history.  Then  were  English- 
men on  fire  to  do  immortal  deeds.  High  aims  and 
noble  ambitions  became  their  birthright.  There 
was  nothing  they  could  not  or  would  not  do  for 
England.  Sailors  put  a  girdle  round  the  world. 
Every  captain  had  a  general's  capacity;  every 
fighting-man  could  have  been  a  captain.  All  the 
women,  from  the  queen  downward,  were  heroines. 
Lofty  statesmanship  guided  the  conduct  of  affairs, 
a  sublime  philosophy  was  in  the  air.  The  period 
of  great  deeds  was  also  the  period  of  our  richest 
literature.  London  was  swarming  with  poetic 
geniuses.  Immortal  dramatists  wandered  in 
couples  between  stage  doors  and  taverns. 

All  this  has  been  said  many  times  ;  and  we  read 
these  glowing  outbursts  about  the  Elizabethan 
age  as  if  to  the  beating  of  a  drum.  But  why  was 
this  period  riper  for  magnificent  deeds  and  noble 
literature  than  any  other  in  English  history? 
We  all  know  how  the  thinkers,  historians,  and 
critics  of  yesterday  and  to-day  answer  that  ques- 
tion ;  but  our  hearts  and  brains  tell  us  that  they 
are  astray.  By  an  amazing  oversight  they  have 
said  nothing  of  the  Influence  of  Tobacco.  The 
Elizabethan  age  might  be  better  named  the  begin- 
ning of  the  smoking  era.  No  unprejudiced  per- 
son who  has  given  thought  to  the  subject  can 
question  the  propriety  of  dividing  our  history  into 
two  periods — the  pre-smoking  and  the  smoking. 
When  Raleigh,  in  honor  of  whom  England  should 
have  changed  its  name,  introduced  tobacco  into 
this  country,  the  glorious  Elizabethan  age  began.  I 
am  aware  that  those  hateful  persons  called  Original 
Researchers  now  maintain  that  Raleigh  was  not 


My  LAD  Y  NICO  TINE.  249 

the  man  ;  but  to  them  I  turn  a  deaf  ear.  I  know, 
I  feel,  that  with  the  introduction  of  tobacco  Eng- 
land woke  up  from  a  long  sleep.  Suddenly  a  new 
zest  had  been  given  to  life.  The  glory  of  exist- 
ence became  a  thing  to  speak  of.  Men  who  had 
hitherto  only  concerned  themselves  with  the 
narrow  things  of  home  put  a  pipe  into  their 
mouths  and  became  philosophers.  Poets  and 
dramatists  smoked  until  all  ignoble  ideas  were 
driven  from  them,  and  into  their  place  rushed  such 
high  thoughts  as  the  world  had  not  known  before. 
Petty  jealousies  no  longer  had  hold  of  statesmen, 
who  smoked,  and  agreed  to  work  together  for 
the  public  weal.  Soldiers  and  sailors  felt,  when 
engaged  with  a  foreign  foe,  that  they  were  fight- 
ing for  their  pipes.  The  whole  country  was 
stirred  by  the  ambition  to  live  up  to  tobacco. 
Every  one,  in  short,  had  now  a  lofty  ideal  con- 
stantly before  him.  Two  stories  of  the  period, 
never  properly  told  hitherto,  illustrate  this.  We 
all  know  that  Gabriel  Harvey  and  Spenser  lay  in 
bed  discussing  English  poetry  and  the  forms  it 
ought  to  take.  This  was  when  tobacco  was  only 
known  to  a  select  few,  of  whom  Spenser,  the 
friend  of  Raleigh,  was  doubtless  one.  That  the 
two  friends  smoked  in  bed  I  can  not  doubt. 
Many  poets  have  done  the  same  thing  since. 
Then  there  is  the  beautiful  Armada  story.  In  a 
famous  Armada  picture  the  English  sailors  are 
represented  smoking ;  which  makes  it  all  the 
more  surprising  that  the  story  to  which  I  refer 
has  come  down  to  us  in  an  incorrect  form.  Ac- 
cording to  the  historians,  when  the  Armada  hove 
in  sight  the  English  captains  were  playing  at 
bowls.  Instead  of  rushing  off  to  their  ships  on 
receipt  of  the  news,  they  observed,  "  Let  us  first 


250  MY  LADY  XICOT1N&. 

finish  our  game. "  I  can  not  believe  that  this  is 
what  they  said.  My  conviction  is  that  what  was 
really  said  was,  "Let  us  first  finish  our  pipes  " — 
surely  a  far  more  impressive  and  memorable 
remark. 

This  afternoon  Marlowe's  "Jew  of  Malta  "  was 
produced  for  the  first  time ;  and  of  the  two  men 
who  have  just  emerged  from  the  Blackfriars 
Theater  one  is  the  creator  of  Barabas.  A  marvel 
to  all  the  "  piperly  makeplaies  and  make-bates," 
save  one,  is  "famous  Ned  Alleyn  ; "  for  when 
money  comes  to  him  he  does  not  drink  till  it  be 
done,  and  already  he  is  laying- by  to  confound  the 
ecclesiastics,  who  say  hard  things  of  him,  by 
founding  Dulwich  College.  "Not  Roscius  nor 
^Esope,"  said  Tom  Nash,  who  was  probably  in 
need  of  a  crown  at  the  time,  "ever  performed 
more  in  action. "  A  good  fellow  he  is  withal ; 
for  it  is  Ned  who  gives  the  supper  to-night  at  the 
"Globe,"  in  honor  of  the  new  piece,  if  he  can  get 
his  friends  together.  The  actor-manager  shakes 
his  head,  for  Marlowe,  who  was  to  meet  him 
here,  must  have  been  seduced  into  a  tavern  by 
the  way  ;  but  his  companion,  Robin  Greene,  is 
only  wondering  if  that  is  a  bailiff  at  the  corner. 
Robin  of  the  "  ruffianly  haire, "  utriusque  academics 
in  artibus  magister,  is  nearing  the  end  of  his  tether, 
and  might  call  to-night  at  shoemaker  Islam's 
house  nearDowgate,  to  tell  a  certain  "bigge,  fat, 
lusty  wench  "  to  prepare  his  last  bed  and  buy  a 
garland  of  bays.  Ned  must  to  the  sign  of  the 
"Saba"  in  Gracious  Street,  where  Burbage  and 
"  honest  gamesom  Armin,"  are  sure  to  be  found  ; 
but  Greene  durst  not  show  himself  in  the  street 
without  Cutting  Ball  and  other  choice  ruffians  as 
a  body-guard.  Ned  is  content  to  leave  them 


MY  LADY  NICOTINE.  451 

behind  ;  for  Robin  has  refused  to  be  of  the  com- 
pany to-night  if  that  "upstart  Will"  is  invited 
too,  and  the  actor  is  fond  of  Will.  There  is  no 
more  useful  man  in  the  theater,  he  has  said  to 
"Signior  Kempino"this  very  day,  for  'touching 
up  old  plays  ;  and  Will  is  a  plodding  young  fel- 
low, too,  if  not  overbrilliant. 

Ned  Alleyn  goes  from  tavern  to  tavern,  picking 
out  his  men.  There  is  an  ale-house  in  Seacoal 
Lane — the  same  where  ladylike  George  Peele 
was  found  by  the  barber,  who  had  subscribed  an 
hour  before  for  his  decent  burial,  "all  alone  with 
a  peck  of  oysters  " — and  here  Ned  is  detained  an 
unconscionable  time.  Just  as  he  is  leaving  with 
Kempe  and  Cowley,  Armin  and  Will  Shakespeare 
burst  in  with  a  cry  for  wine.  It  is  Armin  who 
gives  the  orders,  but  his  companion  pays.  They 
spy  Alleyn,  and  Armin  must  tell  his  news.  He 
is  the  bearer  of  a  challenge  from  some  merry 
souls  at  the  "Saba"to  the  actor-manager;  and 
Ned  Alleyn  turns  white  and  red  when  he  hears  it. 
Then  he  laughs  a  confident  laugh,  and  accepts 
the  bet.  Some  theater-goers,  flushed  with  wine, 
have  dared  him  to  attempt  certain  parts  in  which 
Bentley  and  Knell  vastly  please  them.  Ned  is 
incredulons  that  men  should  be  so  willing  to  fling 
away  their  money  ;  yet  here  is  Will  a  witness, 
and  Burbage  is  staying  on  at  the  "  Saba"  not  to 
let  the  challengers  escape. 

The  young  man  of  twenty-four,  at  the  White 
Horse  in  Friday  Street,  is  Tom  Nash ;  and  it  is 
Peele  who  is  swearing  that  he  is  a  monstrous 
clever  fellow,  and  helping  him  to  finish  his  wine. 
But  Peele  is  glad  to  see  Ned  and  Cowley  in  the 
doorway,  for  Tom  has  a  weakness  for  reading 
aloud  the  good  things  from  his  own  manuscripts. 


252  MY  LADY  NICOTINE. 

There  is  only  one  of  the  company  who  is  not  now 
sick  to  death  of  Nash's  satires  on  Martin  Marpre- 
late  ;  and  perhaps  even  he  has  had  enough  of  them, 
only  he  is  as  yet  too  obscure  a  person  to  say  so. 
That  is  Will ;  and  Nash  detains  him  for  a  moment 
just  to  listen  to  his  last  words  on  the  Mar- 
prelate  controversy.  Marprelate  now  appears 
"with  a  wit  worn  into  the  socket,  twingling- 
and  pinking  like  the  snuff  of  a  candle;  quan- 
tum mutatus  ab  illo  I  how  unlike  the  knave  he 
was  before,  not  for  malice  but  for  sharpness. 
The  hogshead  was  even  come  to  the  hauncing, 
and  nothing  could  be  drawne  from  him  but  dregs. " 
Will  says  it  is  very  good ;  and  Nash  smiles  to 
himself  as  he  puts  the  papers  in  his  pockets  and 
thinks  vaguely  that  he  might  do  something  for 
Will.  Shakespeare  is  not  a  university  man,  and 
they  say  he  held  horses  at  the  doors  of  the  Globe 
not  long  ago  ;  but  he  knows  a  good  thing  when 
he  hears  it. 

All  this  time  Marlowe  is  at  the  Globe,  wondering 
why  the  others  are  so  long  in  coming ;  but  not 
wondering  very  much — for  it  is  good  wine  they 
give  you  at  the  Globe.  Even  before  the  feast  is 
well  begun  Kit's  eyes  are  blood-shot  and  his 
hands  unsteady.  Death  is  already  seeking  for 
him  at  a  tavern  in  Deptford,  and  the  last  scene 
in  a  wild,  brief  life  starts  up  before  us.  A  miser- 
able ale-house,  drunken  words,  the  flash  of  a 
knife,  and  a  man  of  genius  has  received  his 
death-blow.  What  an  epitaph  for  the  greatest 
might-have-been  in  English  literature  :  Christo- 
pher Marlowe,  slain  by  a  serving-man  in  a  drunken 
brawl,  aged  twenty-nine  !  "  But  by  the  time 
Shakespeare  had  reached  his  fortieth  birthday 
every  one  of  his  fellow  playwrights  round  that 
table  had  rushed  to  his  death. 


MY  LAD  Y  NICOTINE.  253 

The  short  stout  gentleman  who  is  fond  of  mak- 
ing jokes,  and  not  particular  whom  he  confides 
them  to,  has  heard  another  good  story  about 
Tarleton.  This  is  the  low  comedian  Kempe,  who 
stepped  into  the  shoes  of  flat-nosed,  squinting 
Tarleton  the  other  day,  but  never  quite  manages 
to  fill  them.  He  whispers  the  tale  across  Will's 
back  to  Cowley,  before  it  is  made  common  prop- 
erty, and  little  fancies,  as  he  does  so,  that  any 
immortality  he  and  his  friend  may  gain  will  be 
owing  to  their  having  played,  before  the  end  of 
the  sixteenth  century,  the  parts  of  Dogberry  and 
Verges  in  a  comedy  by  Shakespeare,  whom  they 
are  at  present  rather  in  the  habit  of  patronizing. 
The  story  is  received  with  boisterous  laughter,  for 
it  suits  the  time  and  place. 

Peele  is  in  the  middle  of  a  love  song  when  Kit 
stumbles  across  the  room  to  say  a  kind  word  to 
Shakespeare.  That  is  a  sign  that  George  is  not 
yet  so  very  tipsy  ;  for  he  is  a  gallant  and  a  squire 
of  dames  so  long  as  he  is  sober.  There  is  not  a 
maid  in  any  tavern  in  Fleet  Street  who  does  not 
think  George  Peele  the  properest  man  in  London. 
And  yet,  Greene  being  absent,  scouring  the  streets 
with  Cutting  Ball — whose  sister  is  mother  of  poor 
Fortunatus  Greene — Peele  is  the  most  dissolute 
man  in  the  Globe  to-night.  There  is  a  sad  little 
daughter  sitting  up  for  him  at  home,  and  she  will 
have  to  sit  wearily  till  morning.  Mario  w'es  praises 
would  sink  deeper  into  Will's  heart  if  the  author 
of  the  "Jew  of  Malta"  were  less  unsteady  on 
his  legs.  And  yet  he  takes  Kit's  words  kindly, 
and  is  glad  to  hear  that  "Titus  Andronicus,"  pro- 
duced the  other  day,  pleases  the  man  whose  praise 
is  most  worth  having.  Will  Shakespeare  looks 
up  to  Kit  Marlowe,  and  "Titus  Andronicus  "  ia 


254  MY  LAD  Y  NrcO  TIME. 

the  work  of  a  young  playwright  who  has  tried  to 
write  like  Kit.  Marlowe  knows  it  and  he  takes 
it  as  something  of  a  compliment,  though  he  does 
not  believe  in  imitation  himself.  He  would  re- 
turn now  to  his  seat  beside  Ned  Alleyn  ;  but  the 
floor  of  the  room  is  becoming  unsteady,  and  Ned 
seems  a  long  way  off.  Besides  Shakespeare's 
cup  would  never  require  refilling  if  there  were 
not  some  one  there  to  help  him  drink. 

The  fun  becomes  fast  and  furious ;  and  the 
landlord  of  the  Globe  puts  in  an  appearance,  os- 
tensibly to  do  his  guests  honor  by  serving  them 
himself.  But  he  is  fearful  of  how  the  rioting  may 
end,  and,  if  he  dared,  he  would  turn  Nash  into 
the  street,  Tom  is  the  only  man  there  whom  the 
landlord — if  that  man  had  only  been  a  Boswell — 
personally  dislikes ;  indeed,  Nash  is  no  great 
favorite  even  with  his  comrades.  He  has  a  bit- 
ter tongue,  and  his  heart  is  not  to  be  mellowed 
by  wine.  The  table  roars  over  his  sallies,  of 
which  the  landlord  himself  is  dimly  conscious 
that  he  is  the  butt,  and  Kempe  and  Cowley  wince 
under  his  satire.  Those  excellent  comedians  fall 
out  over  a  trifling  difference  of  opinion  ;  and 
handsome  Nash — he  tells  us  himself  that  he  was 
handsome,  so  there  can  be  no  doubt  about  it — 
maintains  that  they  should  decide  the  dispute  by 
fisticuffs  without  further  loss  of  time.  While 
Kempe  and  Cowley  threaten  to  break  each  other's 
heads — which,  indeed,  would  be  no  great  matter 
if  they  did  it  quietly — Burbage  is  reciting  vehe- 
mently, with  no  one  heeding  him  ;  and  Marlowe 
insists  on  quarelling  with  Armin  about  the  exist- 
ence of  a  Deity.  For  when  Kit  is  drunk  he  is  an 
infidel.  Armin  will  not  quarrel  with  anybody, 
and  Marlowe  is  exasperated. 


MY  LAD  Y  NICOTINE.  255 

But  where  is  Shakespeare  all  this  time  ?  He 
has  retired  to  a  side-table  with  Alleyn,  who  has 
another  historical  play  that  requires  altering. 
Their  conversation  is  of  comparatively  little  im- 
portance ;  what  we  are  to  note  with  bated  breath 
is  that  Will  is  filling  a  pipe.  His  face  is  placid, 
for  he  does  not  know  that  the  tobacco  .Ned  is 
handing  him  is  the  Arcadia  Mixture.  I  love  Ned 
Alleyn,  and  like  to  think  that  Shakespeare  got  the 
Arcadia  from  him. 

For  a  moment  let  us  turn  from  Shakespeare  at 
this  crisis  in  his  life.  Alleyn  has  left  him  and  is 
paying  the  score.  Marlowe  remains  where  he 
fell.  Nash  has  forgotten  where  he  lodges,  and 
so  sets  off  with  Peele  to  an  ale-house  in  Pye  Cor- 
ner, where  George  is  only  too  well  known. 
Kempe  and  Cowley  are  sent  home  in  baskets. 

Again  we  turn  to  the  figure  in  the  corner,  and 
there  is  such  a  light  on  his  face  that  we  shade  our 
eyes.  He  is  smoking  the  Arcadia,  and  as  he  smokes 
the  tragedy  of  Hamlet  takes  form  in  his  brain. 

This  is  the  picture  that  Scrymgeour  will  never 
dare  to  paint.  I  know  that  there  is  no  mention 
of  tobacco  in  Shakespeare's  plays,  but  those  who 
smoke  the  Arcadia  tell  their  secret  to  none,  and 
of  other  mixtures  they  scorn  to  speak. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

MY   BROTHER    HENRY. 

STRICTLY  speaking  I  never  had  a  brother  Henry, 
and  yet  I  can  not  say  that  Henry  was  an  impos- 
tor. He  came  into  existence  in  a  curious  way, 


256  MY  LADY  NICOTINE. 

and  I  can  think  of  him  now  without  malice  as  a 
child  of  smoke.  The  first  I  heard  of  Henry  was 
at  Pettigrew's  house,  which  is  in  a  London  suburb. 
so  conveniently  situated  that  I  can  go  there  and 
back  in  one  day.  I  was  testing  some  new  Caba- 
nas, I  remember,  when  Pettigrew  remarked  that 
he  had  been  lunching  with  a  man  who  knew  my 
brother  Henry.  Not  having  any  brother  but  Alex- 
ander, I  felt  that  Pettigrew  had  mistaken  the  name. 
"Oh,  no,"  Pettigrew  said;  "he  spoke  of  Alex- 
ander too."  Even  this  did  not  convince  me,  and 
I  asked  my  host  for  his  friend's  name.  Scuda- 
mour  was  the  name  of  the  man,  and  he  had  met 
my  brothers  Alexander  and  Henry  years  before 
in  Paris.  Then  I  remembered  Scudamore,  and  I 
probably  frowned,  for  I  myself  was  my  own 
brother  Henry.  I  distinctly  recalled  Scudamour 
meeting  Alexander  an<J  me  in  Paris,  and  calling 
me  Henry,  though  my  name  begins  with  a  J.  I 
explained  the  mistake  to  Pettigrew,  and  here,  for 
the  time  being,  the  matter  rested.  However  I 
had  by  no  means  heard  the  last  of  Henry. 

Several  times  afterward  I  heard  from  various 
persons  that  Scudamour  wanted  to  meet  me  be- 
cause he  knew  my  brother  Henry.  At  last  we 
did  meet,  in  Jimmy's  chambers ;  and,  almost  as 
soon  as  he  saw  me,  Scudamour  asked  where 
Henry  was  now.  This  was  precisely  what  I 
feared.  I  am  a  man  who  always  looks  like  a 
boy.  There  are  few  persons  of  my  age  in  Lon- 
don who  retain  their  boyish  appearance  as  long 
as  I  have  done  ;  indeed,  this  is  the  curse  of  my 
life.  Though  I  am  approaching  the  age  of  thirty, 
I  pass  for  twenty  ;  and  I  have  observed  old  gen- 
tlemen frown  at  my  precocity  when  I  said  a  good 
thing  or  helped  myself  to  a  second  glass  of  wine 


MY  LAD  Y  NICO  TINE.  257 

There  was,  therefore,  nothing  surprising  in  Scud- 
amour's  remark,  that,  when  he  had  the  pleasure 
of  meeting  Henry,  Henry  must  have  been  about 
the  age  that  I  had  now  reached.  All  would  have 
been  well  had  I  explained  the  real  state  of  affairs 
to  this  annoying  man ;  but,  unfortunately  for 
myself,  I  loathe  entering  upon  explanations  to 
anybody  about  anything.  This  it  is  to  smoke  the 
Arcadia.  When  I  ring  for  a  time-table  and 
William  John  brings  coals  instead  I  accept  the 
coals  as  a  substitute.  Much,  then,  did  I  dread  a 
discussion  with  Scudamour,  his  surprise  when  he 
heard  that  I  was  Henry,  and  his  comments  on 
my  youthful  appearance.  Besides,  I  was  smoking 
the  best  of  all  mixtures.  There  was  no  likelihood 
of  my  meeting  Scudamour  again,  so  the  easiest 
way  to  get  rid  of  him  seemed  to  be  to  humor  him. 
I  therefore  told  him  that  Henry  was  in  India, 
married,  and  doing  well.  "Remember  me  to 
Henry  when  you  write  to  him,"  was  Scudamour's 
last  remark  to  me  that  evening. 

A  few  weeks  later  some  one  tapped  me  on  the 
shoulder  in  Oxford  Street.  It  was  Scudamour. 
"Heard  from  Henry?"  he  asked.  I  said  I  had 
heard  by  the  last  mail.  "Anything  particular  in 
the  letter  ? "  I  felt  it  would  not  do  to  say  that 
there  was  nothing  particular  in  a  letter  which  had 
come  all  the  way  from  India,  so  I  hinted  that 
Henry  was  having  trouble  with  his  wife.  By  this 
I  meant  that  her  health  was  bad  ;  but  he  took  it 
up  in  another  way,  and  I  did  not  set  him  right. 
' '  Ah,  ah  !  "  he  said,  shaking  his  head  sagaciously  ; 
"I'm  sorry  to  hear  that.  Poor  Henry  !  "  "  Poor 
old  boy  !  "  was  all  I  could  think  of  replying. 
"  How  about  the  children?"  Scudamour  asked. 
"Oh,  the  children,"  I  said,  with  what  I  thought 
17 


258  MY  LAD  Y  NICO  TTNE. 

presence  of  mind,  "are  coming  to  England. " 
"  To  stay  with  Alexander  ?"  he  asked.  My  an- 
swer was  that  Alexander  was  expecting  them  by 
the  middle  of  next  month  ;  and  eventually  Scud- 
amour  went  away  muttering',  "Poor  Henry!" 
In  a  month  or  so  we  met  again.  "No  word  of 
Henry's  getting  leave  of  absence  ?  "  asked  Scud- 
amour.  I  replied  shortly  that  Henry  had  gone  to 
live  in  Bombay,  and  would  not  be  home  for  years. 
He  saw  that  I  was  brusque,  so  what  does  he  do 
but  draw  me  aside  for  a  quiet  explanation.  "I 
suppose,"  he  said,  "you  are  annoyed  because  I 
told  Pettigrew  that  Henry's  wife  had  run  away 
from  him.  The  fact  is,  I  did  it  for  your  good. 
You  see,  I  happened  to  make  a  remark  to  Petti- 
grew  about  your  brother  Henry,  and  he  said  that 
there  was  so  such  person.  Of  course  I  laughed 
at  that,  and  pointed  out  not  only  that  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  Henry's  acquaintance,  but  that  you 
and  I  had  talked  about  the  old  fellow  every  time 
we  met.  'Well,'  Pettigrew  said,  'this  is  a  most 
remarkable  thing  ;  for  he,'  meaning  you,  'said  to 
me  in  this  very  room,  sitting  in  that  very  chair, 
that  Alexander  was  his  only  brother.'  I  saw  that 
Pettigrew  resented  your  concealing  the  existence 
of  your  brother  Henry  from  him,  so  I  thought  the 
most  friendly  thing  I  could  do  was  to  tell  him  that 
your  reticence  was  doubtless  due  to  the  unhappy 
state  of  poor  Henry's  private  affairs.  Naturally 
in  the  circumstances  you  did  not  want  to  talk 
about  Henry."  I  shook  Scudamour  by  the  hand, 
telling  him  that  he  had  acted  judiciously  ;  but  if 
I  could  have  stabbed  him  in  the  back  at  that 
moment  I  dare  say  I  would  have  done  it. 

I  did  not  see  Scudamour  again  for  a  long  time, 
for  I  took  care  to  keep  out  of  his  way ;  but  I 


MY  LADY  NICOTINE. 


2S9 


heard  first  from  him  and  then  of  him.  On«  day 
he  wrote  to  me  saying  that  his  nephew  was  going 
to  Bombay,  and  would  I  be  so  good  as  to  give 
the  youth  an  introduction  to  my  brother  Henry  ? 
He  also  asked  me  to  dine  with  him  and  his 
nephew.  I  declined  the  dinner,  but  I  sent  the 
nephew  the  required  note  of  introduction  to 
Henry.  The  next  I  heard  of  Scudamour  was  from 
Pettigrew.  "  By  the  way,"  said  Pettigrew, 
"Scudamour  is  in  Edinburgh  at  present."  I  trem- 
bled, for  Edinburgh  is  where  Alexander  lives. 
"What  has  taken  him  there  f "  I  asked,  with  as- 
sumed carelessness.  Pettigrew  believed  it  was 
business;  "but,"  he  added,  "Scudamour  asked 
me  to  tell  you  that  he  meant  to  call  on  Alexander, 
as  he  was  anxious  to  see  Henry's  children."  A 
few  days  afterward  I  had  a  telegram  from  Alex- 
ander, who  generally  uses  this  means  of  commu- 
nication when  he  corresponds  with  me. 

"Do  you  know  a  man,  Scudamour?  Reply," 
was  what  Alexander  said.  I  thought  of  answer- 
ing that  we  had  met  a  man  of  that  name  when 
we  were  in  Paris  ;  but  after  consideration,  I  re- 
plied boldly  :  "Know  no  one  of  name  of  Scud- 
amour." 

About  two  months  ago  I  passed  Scudamour  in 
Regent  Street,  and  he  scowled  at  me.  This  I 
could  have  borne  if  there  had  been  no  more  of 
Henry ;  but  I  knew  that  Scudamour  was  now 
telling  everybody  about  Henry's  wife. 

By  and  by  I  got  a  letter  from  an  old  friend  of 
Alexander's  asking  me  if  there  was  any  truth  in 
a  report  that  Alexander  was  going  to  Bombay. 
Soon  afterward  Alexander  wrote  to  me  saying  he 
had  been  told  by  several  persons  that  I  was  go- 
ing to  Bombay.  In  short,  I  saw  that  the  time 


260  MY  LAD  Y  NICO TINE. 

had  come  for  killing  Henry.  So  I  told  Pettigrew 
that  Henry  had  died  of  fever,  deeply  regretted ; 
and  asked  him  to  be  sure  to  tell  Scudamour,  who 
had  always  been  interested  in  the  deceased's  wel- 
fare. Pettigrew  afterward  told  me  that  he  had 
communicated  the  sad  intelligence  to  Scudamour. 
' '  How  did  he  take  it  ?  "  I  asked.  ' '  Well/'  Petti- 
grew  said,  reluctantly,  "he  told  me  that  when  he 
was  up  in  Edinburgh  he  did  not  get  on  well  with 
Alexander.  But  he  expressed  great  curiosity  as 
to  Henry's  children. "  ' '  Ah, "  I  said,  ' '  the  children 
were  both  drowned  in  the  Forth ;  a  sad  affair — 
we  can't  bear  to  talk  of  it. "  I  am  not  likely  to 
see  much  of  Scudamour  again,  nor  is  Alexander. 
Scudamour  now  goes  about  saying  that  Henry 
was  the  only  one  of  us  he  really  liked. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

HOUSE-BOAT    "ARCADIA." 

SCRYMGEOUR  had  a  house-boat  called,  of  course, 
the  "Arcadia,"  to  which  he  was  so  ill-advised  as 
to  invite  us  all  at  once.  He  was  at  that  time 
lying  near  Cookham,  attempting  to  catch  the 
advent  of  summer  on  a  canvas,  and  we  were  all, 
unhappily,  able  to  accept  his  invitation.  Look- 
ing back  to  this  nightmare  of  a  holiday,  I  am  puz- 
zled at  our  not  getting  on  well  together,  for  who 
should  be  happy  in  a  house-boat  if  not  five 
bachelors,  well  known  to  each  other,  and  all 
smokers  of  the  same  tobacco  ?  Harriot  says  now 
that  perhaps  we  were  happy  without  knowing  it  ; 
but  that  is  nonsense.  We  were  miserable. 


MY  LADY  NICO TINE,  261 

I  have  concluded  that  we  knew  each  other  too 
well.  Though  accustomed  to  gather  together  in 
my  rooms  of  an  evening  in  London,  we  had  each 
his  private  chambers  to  retire  to,  but  in  the  "Ar- 
cadia "  solitude  was  impossible.  There  was  no 
escaping  from  each  other. 

Scrymgeour,  I  think,  said  that  we  were  un- 
happy because  each  of  us  acted  as  if  the  house- 
boat was  his  own.  We  retorted  that  the  boy — 
by  no  means  a  William  John — was  at  the  bottom 
of  our  troubles,  and  then  Scrymgeour  said  that 
he  had  always  been  against  having  a  boy.  We 
had  been  opposed  to  a  boy  at  first,  too,  fancying 
that  we  should  enjoy  doing  our  own  cooking. 
Seeing  that  there  were  so  many  of  us,  this  should 
not  have  been  difficult,  but  the  kitchen  was  small 
and  we  were  always  striking  against  each  other 
and  knocking  things  over.  We  had  to  break  a 
window-pane  to  let  the  smoke  out ;  then  Gilray, 
in  kicking  the  stove  because  he  had  burned  his 
fingers  on  it,  upset  the  thing,  and,  before  we  had 
time  to  intervene,  a  leg  of  mutton  jumped  out 
and  darted  into  the  coal-bunk.  Jimmy  foolishly 
placed  our  six  tumblers  on  the  window-sill  to  dry 
and  a  gust  of  wind  toppled  them  into  the  river. 
The  draughts  were  a  nuisance.  This  was  owing 
to  windows  facing  each  other  being  left  open, 
and  as  a  result  articles  of  clothing  disappeared  so 
mysteriously  that  we  thought  there  must  be  a 
thief  or  a  somnambulist  on  board.  The  third  or 
fourth  day,  however,  going  into  the  saloon  un- 
expectedly, I  caught  my  straw  hat  disappearing 
on  the  wings  of  the  wind.  When  last  seen  it  was 
on  its  way  to  Maidenhead,  bowling  along  at  the 
rate  of  several  miles  an  hour.  So  we  thought 
it  would  be  as  well  to  have  a  boy.  As  far  as  I 


26*  MY  LADY  NICOTINE. 

remember,  this  was  the  only  point  unanimously 
agreed  upon  during  the  whole  time  we  were 
aboard.  They  told  us  at  the  Ferry  Hotel  that 
boys  were  rather  difficult  to  get  in  Cookham  ; 
but  we  instituted  a  vigorous  house-to-house 
search,  and  at  last  we  ran  a  boy  to  earth  and 
carried  him  off. 

It  was  most  unfortunate  for  all  concerned  that 
the  boy  did  not  sleep  on  board.  There  was, 
however,  no  room  for  him  ;  so  he  came  at  seven 
in  the  morning,  and  retired  when  his  labors  were 
over  for  the  day.  I  say  he  came  ;  but  in  point  of 
fact  that  was  the  difficulty  with  the  boy.  He 
couldn't  come.  He  came  as  far  as  he  could  : 
that  is  to  say,  he  walked  up  the  tow-path  until 
he  was  opposite  the  house-boat,  and  then  he  hal- 
looed to  be  taken  on  board,  whereupon  some  one 
had  to  go  in  the  dingey  for  him.  All  the  time 
we  were  in  the  house-boat  that  boy  was  never 
five  minutes  late.  Wet  or  fine,  calm  or  rough, 
7  A.  M.  found  the  boy  on  the  tow-path  hallooing. 
No  sooner  were  we  asleep  than  the  dewy  morn 
was  made  hideous  by  the  boy.  Lying  in  bed 
with  the  blankets  over  our  heads  to  deaden  his 
cries,  his  fresh,  lusty  young  voice  pierced  wood- 
work, blankets,  sheets,  everything.  "Ya-ho, 
ahoy,  ya-ho,  aho,  ahoy  ! "  So  he  kept  it  up. 
What  followed  may  easily  be  guessed.  We  all 
lay  as  silent  as  the  grave,  each  waiting  for  some 
one  else  to  rise  and  bring  the  impatient  lad  across. 
At  last  the  stillness  would  be  broken  by  some 
one's  yelling  out  that  he  would  do  for  that  boy. 
A  second  would  mutter  horribly  in  his  sleep  ;  a 
third  would  make  himself  a  favorite  for  the  mo- 
ment by  shouting  through  the  wooden  partition 
that  it  was  the  fifth's  turn  this  morning.  The 


M?  LA£>Y  MCOTI&M.  463 

fifth  would  tell  us  where  he  would  see  the  boy 
before  he  went  across  for  him.  Then  there 
would  be  silence  again.  Eventually  some  one 
would  put  an  ulster  over  his  night-shirt,  and 
sternly  announce  his  intention  of  going  over  and 
taking  the  boy's  life.  Hearing  this,  the  others  at 
once  dropped  off  to  sleep.  For  a  few  days  we 
managed  to  trick  the  boy  by  pulling  up  our  blinds 
and  so  conveying  to  his  mind  the  impression  that 
we  were  getting  up.  Then  he  had  not  our  break- 
fast ready  when  we  did  get  up,  which  naturally 
enraged  us. 

As  soon  as  he  got  on  board  that  boy  made  his 
presence  felt.  He  was  very  strong  and  energetic 
in  the  morning,  and  spent  the  first  half  hour  or  so 
in  flinging  coals  at  each  other.  This  was  his  way 
of  breaking  them ;  and  he  was  by  nature  so 
patient  and  humble  that  he  rather  flattered  him- 
self when  a  coal  broke  at  the  twentieth  attempt. 
We  used  to  dream  that  he  was  breaking  coals 
on  our  heads.  Often  one  of  us  dashed  into  the 
kitchen,  threatening  to  drop  him  into  the  river  if 
he  did  not  sit  quite  still  on  a  chair  for  the  next 
two  hours.  Under  these  threats  he  looked  suffi- 
ciently scared  to  satisfy  anybody  ;  but  as  soon  as 
all  was  quiet  again  he  crept  back  to  the  coal-bunk 
and  was  at  his  old  games. 

It  didn't  matter  what  we  did,  the  boy  put  a 
stop  to  it  We  tried  whist,  and  in  ten  minutes 
there  was  a  "Hoy,  hie,  ya-ho!."  from  the  oppo- 
site shore.  It  was  the  boy  come  back  with  the 
vegetables.  If  we  were  reading,  "  Ya-ho,  hie  !  " 
and  some  one  had  to  cross  for  that  boy  and  the 
water-can.  The  boy  was  on  the  tow-path  just 
when  we  had  fallen  into  a  snooze  ;  he  had  to  be 
taken  across  for  the  milk  immediately  we  had 


264  MY  LAD  Y  NICOTJNJL 

lighted  our  pipes.  On  the  whole  it  was  an  open 
question  whether  it  was  not  even  more  annoying1 
to  take  him  over  than  to  go  for  him.  Two  or 
three  times  we  tried  to  be  sociable  and  went  into 
the  village  together ;  but  no  sooner  had  we  begun 
to  enjoy  ourselves  than  we  remembered  that  we 
must  go  back  and  let  the  boy  ashore.  Tennyson 
speaks  of  a  company  making  believe  to  be  merry 
while  all  the  time  the  spirit  of  a  departed  one 
haunted  them  in  their  play.  That  was  exactly  the 
effect  of  the  boy  on  us. 

Even  without  the  boy  I  hardly  think  we  should 
have  been  a  sociable  party.  The  sight  of  so 
much  humanity  gathered  in  one  room  became  a 
nuisance.  We  resorted  to  all  kinds  of  subterfuges 
to  escape  from  each  other;  and  the  one  who 
finished  breakfast  first  generally  managed  to 
make  off  with  the  dingey.  The  others  were  then 
at  liberty  to  view  him  in  the  distance,  in  mid- 
stream, lying  on  his  back  in  the  bottom  of  the 
boat ;  and  it  was  almost  more  than  we  could 
stand.  The  only  way  to  bring  him  back  was  to 
bribe  the  boy  into  saying  that  he  wanted  to  go 
across  to  the  village  for  bacon  or  black  lead  or 
sardines.  Thus  even  the  boy  had  his  uses. 

Things  gradually  got  worse  and  worse.  I  re- 
member only  one  day  when  as  many  as  four  of 
us  were  on  speaking  terms.  Even  this  tempor- 
ary sociability  was  only  brought  about  in  order 
that  we  might  combine  and  fall  upon  Jimmy 
with  the  more  crushing  force.  Jimmy  had  put 
us  in  an  article,  representing  himself  as  a  kind  of 
superior  person  who  was  making  a  study  of  us. 
The  thing  was  of  such  a  gross  caricature,  and  so 
dull,  that  it  was  Jimmy  we  were  sorry  for  rather 
than  ourselves.  Still,  we  gathered  round  him  in 


MY  LAD  Y  NICOTINE.  265 

a  body  and  told  him  what  we  thought  of  the 
matter.  Affairs  might  have  gone  more  smoothly 
after  this  if  we  four  had  been  able  to  hold  to- 
gether. Unfortunately,  Jimmy  won  Harriot  over, 
and  next  day  there  was  a  row  all  round,  which 
resulted  in  our  division  into  five  parties. 

One  day  Pettigrew  visited  us.  He  brought  his 
Gladstone  bag  with  him,  but  did  not  stay  over 
night.  He  was  glad  to  go  ;  for  at  first  none  of 
us,  I  am  afraid,  was  very  civil  to  him,  though  we 
afterward  thawed  a  little.  He  returned  to  London 
and  told  every  one  how  he  found  us.  I  admit  we 
were  not  prepared  to  receive  company.  The 
house-boat  consisted  of  five  apartments — a  saloon, 
three  bedrooms,  and  a  kitchen.  When  he  boarded 
us  we  were  distributed  as  follow  :  I  sat  smoking 
in  the  saloon,  Marriot  sat  smoking  in  the  first 
bedroom,  Gilray  in  the  second,  Jimmy  in  the 
third,  and  Scrymgeour  in  the  kitchen.  The  boy 
did  not  keep  Scrymgeour  company.  He  had  been 
ordered  on  deck,  where  he  sat  with  his  legs  crossed, 
the  picture  of  misery  because  he  had  no  coals  to 
break.  A  few  days  after  Pettigrew's  visit  we  fol- 
lowed him  to  London,  leaving  Scrymgeour  behind, 
where  we  soon  became  friendly  again. 


CHAPTER  XVL 

THE  ARCADIA  MIXTURE  AGAIN. 

ONE  day,  some  weeks  after  we  had  left  Scrym- 
geour's  house-boat,  I  was  alone  in  my  rooms, 
very  busy  smoking,  when  William  John  entered 
with  a  telegram.  It  was  from  Scrymgeour,  and 


*66  Mr  LAD  y  wcottiriL 

said,  "  You  have  got  me  into  a  dreadful  fness« 
Come  down  here  first  train." 

Wondering  what  mess  I  could  have  got  Scrym- 
geour  into,  I  good-naturedly  obeyed  his  summons, 
and  soon  I  was  smoking  placidly  on  the  deck  of 
the  house-boat,  while  Scrymgeour,  sullen  and 
nervous,  tramped  back  and  forward.  I  saw 
quickly  that  the  only  tobacco  had  something  to 
do  with  his  troubles,  for  he  began  by  announcing 
that  one  evening  soon  after  we  left  him  he  found 
that  we  had  smoked  all  his  Arcadia.  He  would 
have  dispatched  the  boy  to  London  for  it,  but  the 
boy  had  been  all  day  in  the  village  buying  a  loaf, 
and  would  not  be  back  for  hours.  Cookham 
cigars  Scrymgeour  could  not  smoke ;  cigarettes 
he  only  endured  if  made  from  the  Arcadia. 

At  Cookham  he  could  only  get  tobacco  that 
made  him  uncomfortable.  Having  recently  be- 
gun to  use  a  new  pouch,  he  searched  his  pockets 
in  vain  for  odd  shreds  of  the  Mixture  to  which  he 
had  so  contemptibly  become  a  slave.  In  a  very 
bad  temper  he  took  to  his  dingey,  vowing  for  a 
little  while  that  he  would  violently  break  the 
chains  that  bound  him  to  one  tobacco,  and  after- 
ward, when  he  was  restored  to  his  senses,  that 
he  would  jilt  the  Arcadia  gradually.  He  had 
pulled  some  distance  down  the  river,  without 
regarding  the  Cliveden  Woods,  when  he  all  but 
ran  into  a  blaze  of  Chinese  lanterns.  It  was  a 
house-boat  called — let  us  change  its  name  to  the 
"  Heathen  Chinee."  Staying  his  dingey  with  a 
jerk,  Scrymgeour  looked  up,  when  a  wonderful 
sight  met  his  eyes.  On  the  open  window  of  an 
apparently  empty  saloon  stood  a  round  tin  of 
tobacco,  marked  "  Arcadia  Mixture." 

Scrymgeour  sat  gaping.     The  only  sound  to  be 


MY  LADY  #ICOfn#JL 

heard,  except  a  soft  splash  of  water  under  the 
house-boat,  came  from  the  kitchen,  where  a  ser- 
vant was  breaking  crockery  for  supper.  The  ro- 
mantic figure  in  the  dingey  stretched  out  his  hand 
and  then  drew  it  back,  remembering  that  there 
was  a  law  against  this  sort  of  thing.  He  thought 
to  himself,  "If  I  were  to  wait  until  the  owner 
returns,  no  doubt  a  man  who  smokes  the  Arcadia 
would  feel  for  me."  Then  his  fatal  horror  of  ex- 
planations whispered  to  him,  "The  owner  may 
be  a  stupid,  garrulous  fellow  who  will  detain  you 
here  half  the  night  explaining  your  situation." 
Scrymgeour,  I  want  to  impress  upon  the  reader, 
was,  like  myself,  the  sort  of  a  man  who,  if  asked 
whether  he  did  not  think  "InMemoriam"  Mr. 
Browning's  greatest  poem,  would  say  Yes,  as  the 
easiest  way  of  ending  the  conversation.  Obvi* 
ously  he  would  save  himself  trouble  by  simply 
annexing  the  tin.  He  seized  it  and  rowed  off. 

Smokers,  who  know  how  tobacco  develops  the 
finer  feelings  hardly  require  to  be  told  what  hap- 
pened next.  Suddenly  Scrymgeour  remembered 
that  he  was  probably  leaving  the  owner  of  the 
"  Heathen  Chinee"  without  any  Arcadia  Mixture. 
He  at  once  filled  his  pouch,  and,  pulling  softly 
back  to  the  house-boat,  replaced  the  tin  on  the 
window,  his  bosom  swelling  with  the  pride  of 
those  who  give  presents.  At  the  same  moment 
a  hand  gripped  him  by  the  neck,  and  a  girl,  some- 
where on  deck,  screamed. 

Scrymgeour's  captor,  who  was  no  other  than 
the  owner  of  the  "Heathen  Chinee,"  dragged 
him  fiercely  into  the  house-boat  and  stormed  at 
him  for  five  minutes.  My  friend  shuddered  as  he 
thought  of  the  explanations  to  come  when  he  was 
allowed  to  speak,  and  gradually  he  realized  that 


268  MY  LAD  Y  NICO  TINE. 

he  had  been  mistaken  for  some  one  else — appar- 
ently for  some  young  blade  who  had  been  carry- 
ing on  a  clandestine  flirtation  with  the  old  gentle- 
man's daughter.  It  will  take  an  hour,  thought 
Scrymgeour,  to  convince  him  that  I  am  not  that 
person,  and  another  hour  to  explain  why  I  am 
really  here.  Then  the  weak  creature  had  an  idea  : 
"  Might  not  the  simplest  plan  be  to  say  that  his 
surmises  are  correct,  promise  to  give  his  daughter 
up,  and  row  away  as  quickly  as  possible  ?  "  He 
began  to  wonder  if  the  girl  was  pretty  ;  but  saw 
it  would  hardly  do  to  say  that  he  reserved  his 
defense  until  he  could  see  her. 

"I  admit,"  he  said,  at  last,  "that  I  admire 
your  daughter ;  but  she  spurned  my  advances, 
and  we  parted  yesterday  forever." 

"Yesterday  !  " 

"Or  was  it  the  day  before?" 

"Why,  sir,  I  have  caught  you  red-handed  !  " 

"This  is  an  accident,"  Scrymgeour  explained, 
"  and  I  promised  never  to  speak  to  her  again." 
Then  he  added,  as  an  after-thought,  "however 
painful  that  may  be  to  me." 

Before  Scrymgeour  returned  to  his  dingey  he 
had  been  told  that  he  would  be  drowned  if  he 
came  near  that  house-boat  again.  As  he  sculled 
away  he  had  a  glimpse  of  the  flirting  daughter, 
whom  he  described  to  me  briefly  as  being  of  such 
engaging  appearance  that  six  yards  was  a  trying 
distance  to  be  away  from  her. 

"Here,"  thought  Scrymgeour  that  night  over  a 
pipe  of  the  Mixture,  "the  affair  ends;  though  I 
dare  say  the  young  lady  will  call  me  terrible 
names  when  she  hears  that  I  have  personated  her 
lover.  I  must  take  care  to  avoid  the  father  now, 
for  he  will  feel  that  I  have  been  following  him. 


JVY  LAD  Y  NICOTXNM.  269 

Perhaps  I  should  have  made  a  clean  breast  of  it  ; 
but  I  do  loathe  explanations." 

Two  days  afterward  Scrymgeour  passed  the 
father  and  daughter  on  the  river.  The  lady  said 
"Thank  you,"  to  him  with  her  eyes,  and,  still 
more  remarkable,  the  old  gentleman  bowed. 
Scrymgeour  thought  it  over.  "  She  is  grateful  to 
me,"  he  concluded,  "for  drawing  away  suspicion 
from  the  other  man,  but  what  can  have  made  the 
father  so  amiable  ?  Suppose  she  has  not  told  him 
that  I  am  an  impostor,  he  should  still  look  upon 
me  as  a  villain  ;  and  if  she  has  told  him,  he  should 
be  still  more  furious.  It  is  curious,  but  no  affair 
of  mine."  Three  times  within  the  next  few  days 
he  encountered  the  lady  on  the  tow-path  or  else- 
where with  a  young  gentleman  of  empty  counte- 
nance, who,  he  saw,  must  be  the  real  Lothario. 
Once  they  passed  him  when  he  was  in  the  shadow 
of  a  tree,  and  the  lady  was  making  pretty  faces 
with  a  cigarette  in  her  mouth.  The  house-boat 
"  Heathen  Chinee"  lay  but  a  short  distance  off, 
and  Scrymgeour  could  see  the  owner  gazing  after 
his  daughter  placidly,  a  pipe  between  his  lips. 

"  He  must  be  approving  of  her  conduct  now," 
was  my  friend's  natural  conclusion.  Then  one 
forenoon  Scrymgeour  traveled  to  town  in  the  same 
compartment  as  the  old  gentleman,  who  was 
exceedingly  frank,  and  made  sly  remarks  about 
romantic  young  people  who  met  by  stealth  when 
there  was  no  reason  why  they  should  not  meet 
openly.  "What  does  he  mean?"  Scrymgeour 
asked  himself,  uneasily.  He  saw  terribly  elabor- 
ate explanations  gathering  and  shrunk  from  them. 

Then  Scrymgeour  was  one  day  out  in  a  punt, 
when  he  encountered  the  old  gentleman  in  a 
canoe.  The  old  man  said,  purple  with  passion, 


HY  LADY  tiico'rtA^. 

that  he  was  on  his  way  to  pay  Mr.  Scrymgeour  a 
business  visit.  "Oh,  yes,"  he  continued,  "I 
know  who  you  are ;  if  I  had  not  discovered  you 
were  a  man  of  means  I  would  not  have  let  the 
thing  go  on,  and  now  I  insist  on  an  explanation." 

Explanations  1 

They  made  for  Scrymgeour's  house-boat,  with 
almost  no  words  on  the  young  man's  part ;  but 
the  father  blurted  out  several  things — as  that  his 
daughter  knew  where  he  was  going  when  he  left 
the  "  Heathen  Chinee,"  and  that  he  had  an  hour 
before  seen  Scrymgeour  making  love  to  another 
girl. 

"Don't  deny  it!"  cried  the  indignant  father; 
"I  recognized  you  by  your  velvet  coat  and  broad 
hat" 

Then  Scrymgeour  begun  to  see  more  clearly. 
The  girl  had  encouraged  the  deception,  and  had 
been  allowed  to  meet  her  lover  because  he  was 
supposed  to  be  no  adventurer  but  the  wealthy 
Mr.  Scrymgeour.  She  must  have  told  the  fellow 
to  get  a  coat  and  hat  like  his  to  help  the  plot.  At 
the  time  the  artist  only  saw  all  this  in  a  jumble. 

Scrymgeour  had  bravely  resolved  to  explain 
everything  now  ;  but  his  bewilderment  may  be 
conceived  when,  on  entering  his  saloon  with  the 
lady's  father,  the  first  thing  they  saw  was  the  lady 
herself.  The  old  gentleman  gasped,  and  his 
daughter  looked  at  Scrymgeour  imploringly. 

"  Now,"  said  the  father  fiercely,  "  explain  I  " 

The  lady's  tears  became  her  vastly.  Hardly 
knowing  what  he  did,  Scrymgeour  put  his  arm 
round  her. 

"Well,  go  on,"  I  said,  when  at  this  point 
Scrymgeour  stopped. 

"  There  is  no  more  to  tell,"  he  replied ;  "you 


MY  LAD y  NICOTINE.  27 1 

see  the  girl  allowed  me  to — well,  protect  her — and 
— and  the  old  gentleman  thinks  we  are  engaged." 

"  I  don't  wonder.     What  does  the  lady  say?  " 

"  She  says  that  she  ran  along  the  bank  and  got 
into  my  house-boat  by  the  plank,  meaning  to  see 
me  before  her  father  arrived  and  to  entreat  me  to 
run  away." 

"With  her?" 

"No,  without  her." 

"  But  what  does  she  say  about  explaining  mat- 
ters to  her  father  ? " 

"  She  says  she  dare  not,  and  as  for  me,  I  could 
not.  That  was  why  I  telegraphed  to  you." 

"  You  want  me  to  be  intercessor  ?  No,  Scrym- 
geour  ;  your  only  honorable  course  is  marriage." 

"But  you  must  help  me.  It  is  all  your  fault, 
teaching  me  to  like  the  Arcadia  Mixture." 

I  thought  this  so  impudent  of  Scrymgeour  that 
I  bade  him  good-night  at  once.  All  the  men  on 
the  stair  are  still  confident  that  he  would  have 
married  her  had  the  lady  not  cut  the  knot  by  elop- 
ing with  Scrymgeour's  double. 


CHAPTER  XVIL 

THE  ROMANCE  OF  A  PIPE-CLEANEX. 

WE  continued  to  visit  the  "Arcadia,"  though 
only  one  at  a  time  now,  and  Gilray,  who  went 
most  frequently,  also  remained  longest.  In  other 
words,  he  was  in  love  again,  and  this  time  she 
lived  at  Cookham.  Harriot's  love  affairs  I  pushed 
from  me  with  a  wave  of  my  pipe,  but  Gilray 's 
second  case  was  serious. 


272  MY  LADY  NICO TINE. 

In  time,  however,  he  returned  to  the  Arcadia 
Mixture,  though  not  until  the  house-boat  was  in 
its  winter  quarters.  I  witnessed  his  complete  re- 
covery, the  scene  being  his  chambers.  Really  it 
is  rather  a  pathetic  story,  and  so  I  give  the  telling 
of  it  to  a  rose,  which  the  lady  once  presented  to 
Gilray.  Conceive  the  rose  lying,  as  I  saw  it,  on 
Gilray's  hearth-rug,  and  then  imagine  it  whisper- 
ing as  follows  : 

"A  wire  was  round  me  that  white  night  on  the 
river  when  she  let  him  take  me  from  her.  Then 
I  hated  the  wire.  Alas  !  hear  the  end. 

"My  moments  are  numbered  ;  and  if  I  would 
expose  him  with  my  dying  sigh,  I  must  not  senti- 
mentalize over  my  own  decay.  They  were  in  a 
punt,  her  hand  trailing  in  the  water,  when  I  became 
his.  When  they  parted  that  night  at  Cookham 
Lock  he  held  her  head  in  his  hands,  and  they 
gazed  in  each  other's  eyes.  Then  he  turned  away 
quickly  ;  when  he  reached  the  punt  again  he  was 
whistling.  Several  times  before  we  came  to  the 
house-boat  in  which  he  and  another  man  lived, 
he  felt  in  his  pocket  to  make  sure  thai;  I  was  still 
there.  At  the  house-boat  he  put  me  in  a  tumbler 
of  water  out  of  sight  of  his  friend,  and  frequently 
he  stole  to  the  spot  like  a  thief  to  look  r.t  me. 
Early  next  morning  he  put  me  in  his  button-hole, 
calling  me  sweet  names.  When  his  friend  saw 
me,  he  too  whistled,  but  not  in  the  same  way. 
Then  my  owner  glared  at  him.  This  happened 
many  months  ago. 

"Next  evening  I  was  in  a  garden  that  slopes 
to  the  river.  I  was  on  his  breast,  and  so  for  a 
moment  was  she.  His  voice  was  so  soft  and  low 
as  he  said  to  her  the  words  he  had  said  to  me  the 
night  before,  that  I  slumbered  in  a  dream.  When 


My  LAD  Y  NICO  TINE.  273 

I  awoke  suddenly  he  was  raging  at  her,  and  she 
cried.  I  know  not  why  they  quarreled  so  quickly, 
but  it  was  about  some  one  whom  he  called  'that 
fellow,'  while  she  called  him  a  '  friend  of  papa's.' 
He  looked  at  her  for  a  long  time  again,  and  then 
said  coldly  that  he  wished  her  a  very  good-even- 
ing. She  bowed  and  went  toward  a  house,  hum- 
ming a  merry  air,  while  he  pretended  to  light  a 
cigarette  made  from  a  tobacco  of  which  he  was 
very  fond.  Till  very  late  that  night  I  heard  him 
walking  up  and  down  the  deck  of  the  house-boat, 
his  friend  shouting  to  him  not  to  be  an  ass.  Me 
he  had  flung  fiercely  on  the  floor  of  the  house- 
boat. About  midnight  he  came  downstairs,  his 
face  white,  and,  snatching  me  up,  put  me  in  his 
pocket.  Again  we  went  into  the  punt,  and  he 
pushed  it  within  sight  of  the  garden.  There  he 
pulled  in  his  pole  and  lay  groaning  in  the  punt, 
letting  it  drift,  while  he  called  her  his  beloved  and 
a  little  devil.  Suddenly  he  took  me  from  his 
pocket,  kissed  me,  and  cast  me  down  from  him 
into  the  night.  I  fell  among  reeds,  head  down- 
ward ;  and  there  I  lay  all  through  the  cold,  horrid 
night.  The  gray  morning  came  at  last,  then  the 
sun,  and  a  boat  now  and  again.  I  thought  I  had 
found  my  grave,  when  I  saw  his  punt  coming 
towaid  the  reeds.  He  searched  everywhere  for 
me,  and  at  last  he  found  me.  So  delighted  and 
affectionate  was  he  that  I  forgave  him  my  suffer- 
ings, only  I  was  jealous  of  a  letter  in  his  other 
pocket,  which  he  read  over  many  times,  murmur- 
ing that  it  explained  everything. 

"  Her  I  never  saw  again,  but  I  heard  her  voice. 

He  kept  me  now  in  a  leather  case  in  an   inner 

pocket,   where  I  was  squeezed  very  flat     What 

they  said  to  each  other  I  could  not  catch  ;  but  I 

18 


274  MY  LAD  Y  NICOTINE. 

understood  afterward,  for  he  always  repeated  to 
me  what  he  had  been  saying  to  her,  and  many 
times,  he  was  loving,  many  times  angry,  like  a 
bad  man.  At  last  came  a  day  when  he  had  a 
letter  from  her  containing  many  things  he  had 
given  her,  among  them  a  ring  on  which  she  had 
seemed  to  set  great  store.  What  it  all  meant  I 
never  rightly  knew,  but  he  flung  the  ring  into  the 
Thames,  calling  her  all  the  old  wicked  names  and 
some  new  ones.  I  remember  how  he  rushed  to 
her  house,  along  the  bank  this  time,  and  that  she 
asked  him  to  be  her  brother  ;  but  he  screamed 
denunciations  at  her,  again  speaking  of  '  that 
fellow,'  and  saying  that  he  was  going  to-morrow 
to  Manitoba. 

"So  far  as  I  know,  they  saw  each  other  no 
more.  He  walked  on  the  decks  so  much  now  that 
his  friend  went  back  to  London,  saying  he  could 
get  no  sleep.  Sometimes  we  took  long  walks 
alone  ;  often  we  sat  for  hours  looking  at  the  river, 
for  on  those  occasions  he  would  take  me  out  of 
the  leather  case  and  put  me  on  his  knee.  One 
day  his  friend  came  back  and  told  him  that  he 
would  soon  get  over  it,  he  himself  having  once 
had  a  similar  experience  ;  but  my  master  said  no 
one  had  ever  loved  as  he  loved,  and  muttered 
'Vixi,  vixi'  to  himself  till  the  other  told  him  not 
to  be  a  fool,  but  to  come  to  the  hotel  and  have 
something  to  eat.  Over  this  they  quarreled,  my 
master  hinting  that  he  would  eat  no  more  ;  but 
he  eat  heartily  after  his  friend  was  gone. 

"After  a  time  we  left  the  house-boat,  and  were 
in  chambers  in  a  great  inn.  I  was  still  in  his 
pocket,  and  heard  many  conversations  between 
him  and  people  who  came  to  see  him,  and  he 
would  tell  them  that  he  loathed  the  society  of 


MY  LAD  Y  NICOTINE.  275 

women.  When  they  told  him,  as  one  or  two 
did,  that  they  were  in  love,  he  always  said  that 
he  had  gone  through  that  stage  ages  ago.  Still, 
at  nights  he  would  take  me  out  of  my  case,  when 
he  was  alone,  and  look  at  me  ;  after  which  he 
walked  up  and  down  the  room  in  an  agitated  man- 
ner and  cried,  '  Vixi.' 

"By  and  by  he  left  me  in  a  coat  that  he  was 
no  longer  wearing.  Before  this  he  had  always 
put  me  into  whatever  coat  he  h#d  on.  I  lay  neg- 
lected, I  think,  for  a  month,  until  one  day  he  felt 
the  pockets  of  the  coat  for  something  else,  and 
pulled  me  out.  I  don't  think  he  remembered 
what  was  in  the  leather  case  at  first ;  but  as  he 
looked  at  me  his  face  filled  with  sentiment,  and 
next  day  he  took  me  with  him  to  Cookham.  The 
winter  was  come,  and  it  was  a  cold  day.  There 
were  no  boats  on  the  river.  He  walked  up  the 
bank  to  the  garden  where  was  the  house  in  which 
she  had  lived ;  but  the  place  was  now  deserted. 
On  the  garden  gate  he  sat  down,  taking  me  from 
his  pocket  ;  and  here,  I  think,  he  meant  to  recall 
the  days  that  were  dead.  But  a  cold,  piercing 
wind  was  blowing,  and  many  times  he  looked  at 
his  watch,  putting  it  to  his  ear  as  if  he  thought  it 
had  stopped.  After  a  little  he  took  to  flinging 
stones  into  the  water,  for  something  to  do ;  and 
then  he  went  to  the  hotel  and  stayed  there  till  he 
got  a  train  back  to  London.  We  were  home  many 
hours  before  he  meant  to  be  back,  and  that  night 
he  went  to  a  theater. 

"That  was  my  last  day  in  the  leather  case. 
He  keeps  something  else  in  it  now.  He  flung  me 
among  old  papers,  smoking-caps,  slippers,  and 
other  odds  and  ends  into  a  box,  where  I  have 
remained  until  to-night  A  month  or  more  ago 


276  MY  LADY  NICO TINE. 

he  rummaged  in  the  box  for  some  old  letters,  and 
coming  upon  me  unexpectedly,  he  jagged  his 
finger  on  the  wire.  'Where  on  earth  did  you 
come  from  ?  he  asked  me.  Then  he  remembered, 
and  flung  me  back  among  the  papers  with  a 
laugh.  Now  we  come  to  to-night.  An  hour  ago 
I  heard  him  blowing  down  something,  then  stamp- 
ing his  feet.  From  his  words  I  knew  that  his 
pipe  was  stopped.  I  heard  him  ring  a  bell  and 
ask  angrily  who  had  gone  offwith  his  pipe-cleaners. 
He  bustled  through  the  room  looking  for  them  or 
for  a  substitute,  and  after  a  time  he  cried  aloud, 
'  I  have  it ;  that  would  do  ;  but  where  was  it  I  saw 
the  thing  last  ? '  He  pulled  out  several  drawers, 
looked  through  his  desk,  and  then  opened  the  box 
in  which  I  lay.  He  tumbled  its  contents  over 
until  he  found  me,  and  then  he  pulled  me  out, 
exclaiming,  '  Eureka  ! '  My  heart  sunk,  for  I 
understood  all  as  I  fell  leaf  by  leaf  on  the  hearth- 
rug where  I  now  lie.  He  took  the  wire  off  me  and 
used  it  to  clean  his  pipe. " 


CHAPTER  XVIIL 

WHAT  COULD   HE   DO? 

THIS  was  another  of  Harriot's  perplexities  of  the 
heart.  He  had  been  on  the  Continent,  and  I  knew 
from  his  face,  the  moment  he  returned,  that  I 
would  have  a  night  of  him. 

"  On  the  4th  of  September,"  he  began,  playing 
agitatedly  with  my  tobacco-pouch,  which  was 
not  for  hands  like  his,  "I  had  walked  from 
Spondinig  to  Franzenshohe,  which  is  a  Tyrolese 


MY  LADY  NICOTINE. 


277 


inn  near  the  top  of  Stelvio  Pass.  From  the  inn 
to  a  very  fine  glacier  is  only  a  stroll  of  a  few 
minutes ;  but  the  path  is  broken  by  a  roaring 
stream.  The  only  bridge  across  this  stream  is  a 
plank,  which  seemed  to  give  way  as  I  put  my 
foot  on  it  I  drew  back,  for  the  stream  would  be 
called  one  long  water-fall  in  England.  Though 
a  passionate  admirer  of  courage,  I  easily  lose  my 
head  myself,  and  I  did  not  dare  to  venture  across 
the  plank.  I  walked  up  the  stream,  looking  in 
vain  for  another  crossing,  and  finally  sat  down 
on  a  wilderness  of  stones,  from  which  I  happened 
to  have  a  good  view  of  the  plank.  In  parties  of 
two  and  three  a  number  of  tourists  strolled  down 
the  path ;  but  they  were  all  afraid  to  cross  the 
bridge.  I  saw  them  test  it  with  their  alpenstocks  ; 
but  none  would  put  more  than  one  foot  on  it. 
They  gathered  there  at  their  wit's  end.  Suddenly 
I  saw  that  there  was  some  one  on  the  plank.  It 
was  a  young  lady.  I  stood  up  and  gazed.  She 
was  perhaps  a  hundred  yards  away  from  me  ;  but 
I  could  distinctly  make  out  her  swaying,  girlish 
figure,  her  deer-stalker  cap,  and  the  ends  of  her 
boa  (as,  I  think,  those  long,  furry  things  are 
called)  floating  in  the  wind.  In  a  moment  she 
was  safe  on  the  other  side  ;  but  on  the  middle  of 
the  plank  she  had  turned  to  kiss  her  hand  to  some 
of  her  more  timid  friends,  and  it  was  then  that  I 
fell  in  love  with  her.  No  doubt  it  was  the  very 
place  for  romance,  if  one  was  sufficiently  clad ; 
but  I  am  not  'susceptible,'  as  it  is  called,  and  I 
had  never  loved  before.  On  the  other  hand,  I 
was  always  a  firm  believer  in  love  at  first  sight, 
which,  as  you  will  see  immediately,  is  at  the  very 
root  of  my  present  sufferings. 

"The  other  tourists,  their  fears  allayed,  now 


278  MY  LADY  NICO TINE. 

crossed  the  plank,  but  I  hurried  away  anywhere ; 
and  found  myself  an  hour  afterward  on  a  hillside, 
surrounded  by  tinkling  cows.  All  that  time  I 
had  been  thinking  of  a  plank  with  a  girl  on  it.  I 
returned  hastily  to  the  inn,  to  hear  that  the  hero- 
ine of  the  bridge  and  her  friends  had  already 
driven  off  up  the  pass.  My  intention  had  been 
to  stay  at  Franzenshohe  over  night,  but  of  course 
I  at  once  followed  the  line  of  carriages  which 
could  be  seen  crawling  up  the  winding  road.  It 
was  no  difficult  matter  to  overtake  them,  and  in 
half  an  hour  I  was  within  a  few  yards  of  the  hind- 
most carriage.  It  contained  her  of  whom  I  was 
in  pursuit  Her  back  was  toward  me,  but  I  rec- 
ognized the  cap  and  the  boa.  I  confess  that  I  was 
nervous  about  her  face,  which  I  had  not  yet 
seen.  So  often  had  I  been  disappointed  in  ladies 
when  they  showed  their  faces,  that  I  muttered 
Jimmy's  aphorism  to  myself :  '  The  saddest  thing 
in  life  is  that  most  women  look  best  from  the 
back.'  But  when  she  looked  round  all  anxiety 
was  dispelled.  So  far  as  your  advice  is  concerned, 
it  cannot  matter  to  you  what  she  was  like. 
Briefly,  she  was  charming. 

"I  am  naturally  shy,  and  so  had  more  difficulty 
in  making  her  acquaintance  than  many  travelers 
would  have  had.  It  was  at  the  baths  of  Bormio 
that  we  came  together.  I  had  bribed  a  waiter  to 
seat  me  next  her  father  at  dinner;  but,  when 
the  time  came,  I  could  say  nothing  to  him,  so 
anxious  was  I  to  create  a  favorable  impression. 
In  the  evening,  however,  I  found  the  family 
gathered  round  a  pole,  with  skittles  at  the  foot  of 
it  They  were  wondering  how  Italian  skittles 
was  played,  and,  though  I  had  no  idea,  I  volun- 
teered to  teach  them.  Fortunately  none  of  them 


MY  LAD  Y  NICO  TINE.  279 

understood  Italian,  and  consequently  the  ex- 
postulations of  the  boy  in  charge  were  disregarded. 
It  is  not  my  intention  to  dwell  upon  the  never-to- 
be-forgotten  days — ah,  and  still  more  the  evenings 
— we  spent  at  the  baths  of  Bormio.  I  had  loved 
her  as  she  crossed  the  plank  ;  but  daily  now  had 
I  more  cause  to  love  her,  and  it  was  at  Bormio  that 
she  learned — I  say  it  with  all  humility — to  love 
me.  The  seat  in  the  garden  on  which  I  proposed 
is  doubtless  still  to  be  seen,  with  the  chair  near 
it  on  which  her  papa  was  at  that  very  moment 
sitting,  with  one  of  his  feet  on  a  small  table. 
During  the  three  sunny  days  that  followed,  my 
life  was  one  delicious  dream,  with  no  sign  that 
the  awakening  was  at  hand. 

"So  far  I  had  not  mentioned  the  incident  at 
Franzenshohe  to  her.  Perhaps  you  will  call  my 
reticence  contemptible ;  but  the  fact  is,  I  feared 
to  fall  in  her  esteem.  I  could  not  have  spoken 
of  the  plank  without  admitting  that  I  was  afraid 
to  cross  it ;  and  then  what  would  she,  who  was 
a  heroine,  think  of  a  man  who  was  so  little 
of  a  hero?  Thus,  though  I  had  told  her  many 
times  that  I  fell  in  love  with  her  at  first  sight,  she 
thought  I  referred  to  the  time  when  she  first  saw 
me.  She  liked  to  hear  me  say  that  I  believed  in 
no  love  but  love  at  first  sight ;  and,  looking  back, 
I  can  recall  saying  it  at  least  once  on  every  seat 
in  the  garden  at  the  baths  of  Bormio. 

"Do  you  know  Tirano,  a  hamlet  in  a  nest  of 
vines,  where  Italian  soldiers  strut  and  women 
sleep  in  the  sun  beside  baskets  of  fruit  ?  How 
happily  we  entered  it ;  were  we  the  same  persons 
who  left  it  within  an  hour  ?  I  was  now  traveling 
with  her  party  ;  and  at  Tirano,  while  the  others 
rested,  she  and  I  walked  down  a  road  between 


«8o  MY  LADY  WCOTlttR. 

vines  and  Indian  corn.  Why  I  should  then  have 
told  her  that  I  loved  her  for  a  whole  day  before 
she  saw  me  I  cannot  tell.  It  may  have  been 
something  she  said,  perhaps  only  an  irresistible 
movement  of  her  head ;  for  her  grace  was  ever 
taking  me  by  surprise,  and  she  was  a  revelation 
a  thousand  times  a  day.  But  whatever  it  was 
that  made  me  speak  out,  I  suddenly  told  her  that 
I  fell  in  love  with  her  as  she  stood  upon  the  plank 
at  Franzenshohe.  I  remember  her  stopping  short 
at  a  point  where  there  had  probably  once  been 
a  gate  to  the  vineyard,  and  I  thought  she  was 
angry  with  me  for  not  having  told  her  of  the 
Franzenshohe  incident  before.  Soon  the  pallor  of 
her  face  alarmed  me.  She  entreated  me  to  say  it 
was  not  at  Franzenshohe  that  I  first  loved  her, 
and  I  fancied  she  was  afraid  lest  her  behavior  on 
the  bridge  had  seemed  a  little  bold.  I  told  her  it 
was  divine,  and  pictured  the  scene  as  only  an 
anxious  lover  could  do.  Then  she  burst  into 
tears,  and  we  went  back  silently  to  her  relatives. 
She  would  not  say  a  word  to  me. 

"  We  drove  to  Sondrio,  and  before  we  reached 
it  I  dare  say  I  was  as  pale  as  she.  A  horrible 
thought  had  flashed  upon  me.  At  Sondrio  I  took 
her  papa  aside,  and,  without  telling  him  what  had 
happened,  questioned  him  about  his  impressions 
of  Franzenshohe.  '  You  remember  the  little  bridge," 
he  said,  '  that  we  were  all  afraid  to  cross  ;  by 
Jove  1  I  have  often  wondered  who  that  girl  was 
that  ventured  over  it  first.' 

"I  hastened  away  from  him  to  think.  My 
fears  had  been  confirmed  It  was  not  she  who 
had  first  crossed  the  plank.  Therefore  it  was  not 
she  with  whom  I  had  fallen  in  love.  Nothing 
could  be  plainer  than  that  I  was  in  love  with  the 


MY  LADY  NICOTINE.  a8l 

wrong  person.  All  the  time  I  had  loved  another. 
But  who  was  she  ?  Besides,  did  I  love  her  ? 
Certainly  not.  Yes,  but  why  did  I  love  this  one  ? 
The  whole  foundation  of  my  love  had  been  swept 
away.  Yet  the  love  remained.  Which  is  absurd. 

"At  Colico  I  put  the  difficulty  to  her  father  ;  but 
he  is  stout,  and  did  not  understand  its  magnitude. 
He  said  he  could  not  see  how  it  mattered.  As 
for  her,  I  have  never  mentioned  it  to  her  again  ; 
but  she  is  always  thinking  of  it,  and  so  am  I.  A 
wall  has  risen  up  between  us,  and  how  to  get 
over  it  or  whether  I  have  any  right  to  get  over  it, 
I  know  not.  Will  you  help  me — and  her?" 

"Certainly  not,"  I  said. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

PRIMUS. 

PRIMUS  is  my  brother's  eldest  son,  and  he  once 
spent  his  Easter  holidays  with  me.  I  did  not  want 
him,  nor  was  he  anxious  to  come,  but  circum- 
stances were  too  strong  for  us,  and,  to  be  just  to 
Primus,  he  did  his  best  to  show  me  that  I  was  not 
''in  his  way.  He  was  then  at  the  age  when  boys 
begin  to  address  each  other  by  their  surnames. 

I  have  said  that  I  always  took  care  not  to  know 
how  much  tobacco  I  smoked  in  a  week,  and  there- 
fore I  may  be  hinting  a  libel  on  Primus  when  I 
say  that  while  he  was  with  me  the  Arcadia  dis- 
appeared mysteriously.  Though  he  spoke  re- 
spectfully of  the  Mixture — as  became  my  nephew 
— he  tumbled  it  on  to  the  table,  so  that  he  might 
make  a  telephone  out  of  the  tins,  and  he  had 
a  passion  for  what  he  called  "snipping  cigars." 


282  MY  LADY  NICOTINE. 

Scrymgeour  gave  him  a  cigar-cutter  which  was 
pistol-shaped.  You  put  the  cigar  end  in  a  hole, 
pull  the  trigger,  and  the  cigar  was  snipped.  The 
simplicity  of  the  thing  fascinated  Primus,  and  after 
his  return  to  school  I  found  that  he  had  broken 
into  my  Cabana  boxes  and  snipped  nearly  three 
hundred  cigars. 

As  soon  as  he  arrived  Primus  laid  siege  to  the 
heart  of  William  John,  captured  it  in  six  hours, 
and  demoralized  it  in  twenty-four.  We  who  had 
known  William  John  for  years,  considered  him 
very  practical,  but  Primus  fired  him  with  tales  of 
dark  deeds  at  ' '  old  Poppy's '' — which  was  Primus's 
handy  name  for  his  preceptor — and  in  a  short 
time  William  John  was  so  full  of  romance  that  we 
could  not  trust  him  to  black  our  boots.  He  and 
Primus  had  a  scheme  for  seizing  a  lugger  and  be- 
coming pirates,  when  Primus  was  to  be  captain, 
William  John  first  lieutenant,  and  old  Poppy  a 
prisoner.  To  the  crew  was  added  a  boy  with 
a  catapult,-  one  Johnny  Fox,  who  was  another 
victim  of  the  tyrant  Poppy,  and  they  practiced 
walking  the  plank  at  Scrymgeour's  window. 
The  plank  was  pushed  nearly  half-way  out  at  the 
window,  and  you  walked  up  it  until  it  toppled  and 
you  were  flung  into  the  quadrangle.  Such  was 
the  romance  of  William  John  that  he  walked  the 
plank  with  his  arms  tied,  shoutingscornfully,  by  re- 
quest, "Captain  Kidd,  I  defy  you  !  ha,  ha  !  the  buc- 
caneer does  not  live  who  will  blanch  the  cheeks 
of  Dick,  the  Doughty  Tar  !  "  Then  William  John 
disappeared,  and  had  to  be  put  in  poultices. 

While  William  John  was  in  bed  slowly  recover- 
ing from  his  heroism,  the  pirate  captain  and 
Johnny  Fox  got  me  into  trouble  by  stretching  a 
string  across  the  square,  six  feet  from  the  ground, 


MY  LAD  Y  NICO  TINE.  383 

against  which  many  tall  hats  struck,  to  topple  in 
the  dust.  An  improved  sling  from  the  Lowther 
Arcade  kept  the  glazier  constantly  in  the  inn. 
Primus  and  Johnny  Fox  strolled  into  Holburn, 
knocked  a  bootblack's  cap  off,  and  returned  with 
lumps  on  their  foreheads.  They  were  observed 
one  day  in  Hyde  Park — whither  it  may  be  feared 
they  had  gone  with  cigarettes — running  after  sheep 
from  which  ladies  were  flying,  while  street  arabs 
chased  the  pirates,  and  a  policeman  chased  the 
street  arabs.  The  only  book  they  read  was  the 
"Comic  History  of  Rome,"  the  property  of  Gilray. 
This  they  liked  so  much  that  Primus  papered  the 
inside  of  his  box  with  pictures  from  it.  The  only 
authors  they  consulted  me  about  were  "two  big 
swells  "  called  Descartes  and  James  Payn,  of  whom 
Primus  discovered  that  the  one  could  always  work 
best  in  bed,  while  the  other  thought  Latin  and 
Greek  a  mistake.  It  was  the  intention  of  the 
pirates  to  call  old  Poppy's  attention  to  these  gen- 
tlemen's views. 

Soon  after  Primus  came  to  me  I  learned  that 
his  school-master  had  given  him  a  holiday  task. 
All  the  ' '  fellows"  in  his  form  had  to  write  an 
essay  entitled  "My  Holidays,  and  How  I  Turned 
Them  to  Account,"  and  to  send  it  to  their  pre- 
ceptor. Primus  troubled  his  head  little  about  the 
task  while  the  composition  of  it  was  yet  afar  off ; 
but  as  his  time  drew  near  he  referred  to  it  with 
indignation,  and  to  his  master's  action  in  pre- 
scribing it  as  a  "low  trick."  He  frightened  the 
housekeeper  into  tears  by  saying  that  he  would 
not  write  a  line  of  the  task,  and,  what  was  more, 
he  would  "cheek"  his  master  for  imposing  it-, 
and  I  also  heard  that  he  and  Johnny  had  some 
thought  of  writing  the  essay  in  a  form  suggested 


384  *Y  LA&Y  NICOTINE. 

by  their  perusal  of  the  "  Comic  History  of 
Rome."  One  day  I  found  a  paper  in  my  cham- 
bers which  told  me  that  the  task  was  nevertheless 
receiving1  serious  consideration.  It  was  the  in- 
structions given  by  Primus's  master  with  regard 
to  the  essay,  which  was  to  be  "in  the  form  of  a 
letter,"  and  "  not  less  than  five  hundred  words  in 
length."  The  writer,  it  was  suggested,  should 
give  a  general  sketch  of  how  he  was  passing  his 
time,  what  books  he  was  reading,  and  "how  he 
was  making  the  home  brighter."  I  did  not  know 
that  Primus  had  risen  equal  to  the  occasion  until 
one  day  after  his  departure,  when  I  received  his 
epistle  from  the  school-master,  who  wanted  me 
to  say  whether  it  was  a  true  statement.  Here  is 
Primus's  essay  on  his  holidays  and  how  he  made 
the  home  brighter : 

"  RESPECTED  SIR, — I  venture  to  address  you  on 
a  subject  of  jeneral  interest  to  all  engaged  in 
education,  and  the  subject  I  venture  to  address 
you  on  is,  'My  Hollidays  and  How  I  Turned 
Them  to  Account.'  Three  weeks  and  two  days 
has  now  elapsed  since  I  quitted  your  scholastic 
establishment,  and  I  quitted  your  scholastic  es- 
tablishment with  tears  in  my  eyes,  it  being  the 
one  of  all  the  scholastic  establishments  I  have 
been  at  that  I  loved  to  reside  in,  and  everybody 
was  of  an  amiable  disposition.  Hollidays  is  good 
for  making  us  renew  our  studdies  with  redoubled 
vigor,  the  mussels  needing  to  be  invigorated,  and 
I  have  not  overworked  mind  and  body  in  my 
hollidays.  I  found  my  uncle  well,  and  drove  in  a 
handsome  to  the  door,  and  he  thought  I  was 
much  improved  both  in  appearance  and  manners  ; 
and  I  said  it  was  jew  to  the  loving  care  of  my 


MY  LADY  NICOTINE. 

teacher  making  improvement  in  appearance  and 
manners  a  pleasure  to  the  youth  of  England. 
My  uncle  was  partiklarly  pleased  with  the  im- 
provement I  had  made,  not  only  in  my  appear- 
ance and  manners,  but  also  in  my  studies  ;  and  I 
told  him  Casear  was  the  Latin  writer  I  liked  best, 
and  quoted  'veni,  vidi,  vici/  and  some  others 
which  I  regret  I  cannot  mind  at  present.  With 
your  kind  permission  I  should  like  to  write  you  a 
line  about  how  I  spend  my  days  during  the  holli- 
days ;  and  my  first  way  of  spending  my  days 
during  the  hollidays  is  whatsoever  my  hands  find 
to  do  doing  it  with  all  my  might ;  also  setting 
my  face  nobly  against  hurting  the  fealings  of 
others,  and  minding  to  say,  before  I  go  to  sleep, 
'  Something  attempted,  something  done,  to  earn 
a  night's  repose,'  as  advised  by  you,  my  esteemed 
communicant.  I  spend  my  days  during  the  holli- 
days getting  up  early,  so  as  to  be  down  in  time 
for  breakfast,  and  not  to  give  no  trouble.  At 
breakfast  I  behave  like  a  model,  so  as  to  set  a 
good  example  ;  and  then  I  go  out  for  a  walk  with 
my  esteemed  young  friend,  John  Fox,  whom  I 
chose  carefully  for  a  friend,  fearing  to  corrupt  my 
morals  by  holding  communications  with  rude 
boys.  TheJ.  Fox  whom  I  mentioned  is  esteemed 
by  all  who  knows  him  as  of  a  unusually  gentle 
disposition  ;  and  you  know  him,  respected  sir, 
yourself,  he  being  in  my  form,  and  best  known 
in  regretble  slang  as  '  Foxy.'  We  walks  in  Hyde 
Park  admiring  the  works  of  nature,  and  keeps  up 
our  classics  when  we  see  a  tree  by  calling  it 
'arbor*  and  then  going  through  the  declensions  ; 
but  we  never  climbs  trees  for  fear  of  messing  the 
clothes  bestowed  upon  us  by  our  beloved  parents 
in  the  sweat  of  their  brow ;  and  we  scorns  to  fling 


286  MY  LADY  NICO TINE. 

stones  at  the  beautiful  warblers  which  fill  the 
atmosfere  with  music.  In  the  afternoons  I  spend 
my  days  during  the  hollidays  talking  with  the 
housekeeper  about  the  things  she  understands, 
like  not  taking  off  my  flannels  till  June  15,  and 
also  praising  the  matron  at  the  school  for  seeing 
about  the  socks.  In  the  evening  I  devote  myself 
to  whatever  good  cause  I  can  think  of  ;  and  I 
always  take  off  my  boots  and  put  on  my  slippers, 
so  as  not  to  soil  the  carpet.  I  should  like,  re- 
spected sir,  to  inform  you  of  the  books  I  read 
when  my  duties  does  not  call  me  elsewhere  ;  and 
the  books  I  read  are  the  works  of  William 
Shakespeare,  John  Milton,  Albert  Tennyson,  and 
Francis  Bacon.  Me  and  John  Fox  also  reads  the 
'  History  of  Rome,'  so  as  to  prime  ourselves  with 
the  greatness  of  the  past ;  and  we  hopes  the  glori- 
ous examples  of  Romulus  and  Remus,  but  espe- 
cially Hannibal,  will  sink  into  our  minds  to  spur 
us  along.  I  am  desirous  to  acquaint  you  with 
the  way  I  make  my  uncle's  home  brighter ;  but 
the  500  words  is  up.  So  looking  forward  eagerly 
to  resume  my  studdies,  I  am,  respected  sir,  your 
dilligent  pupil." 


CHAPTER  XX 

PRIMUS  TO  HIS  UNCLE. 

THOUGH  we  all  pretended  to  be  glad  when 
Primus  went,  we  spoke  of  him  briefly  at  times, 
and  I  read  his  letters  aloud  at  our  evening  meet- 
ings. Here  is  a  series  of  them  from  my  desk. 
Primus  was  now  a  year  and  a  half  older,  and  hi» 
spelling  had  improved. 


MY  LAD  Y  NICO  TINE.  287 

I. 

November  i6/h. 

DEAR  UNCLE, — Though  I  have  not  written  to 
you  for  a  long  time  I  often  think  about  you  and 
Mr.  Gilray  and  the  rest  and  the  Arcadia  Mixture, 
and  I  beg  to  state  that  my  mother  will  have  in- 
formed you  I  am  well  and  happy  but  a  little  over- 
worked, as  I  am  desirous  of  pleasing  my  preceptor 
by  obtaining  a  credible  position  in  the  exams, 
and  we  breakfast  at  7  :  30  sharp.  I  suppose  you 
are  to  give  me  a  six-shilling  thing  again  as  a 
Christmas  present,  so  I  drop  you  a  line  not  to  buy 
something  I  don't  want,  as  it  is  only  thirty-nine 
days  to  Christmas.  I  think  I'll  have  a  book  again, 
but  not  a  fairy  tale  or  any  of  that  sort,  nor  the 
"Swiss  Family  Robinson,"  nor  any  of  the  old 
books.  There  is  a  rattling  story  called  "Kid- 
napped," by  H.  Rider  Haggard,  but  it  is  only  five 
shillings,  so  if  you  thought  of  it  you  could  make 
up  the  six  shillings  by  giving  me  a  football  belt. 
Last  year  you  gave  me  "The  Formation  of  Char- 
acter," and  I  read  it  with  great  mental  improve- 
ment and  all  that,  but  this  time  I  want  a  change, 
namely,  (i)  not  a  fairy  tale,  (2)  not  an  old  book, 
(3)  not  mental  improvement  book.  Don't  fix  on 
anything  without  telling  me  first  what  it  is.  Tell 
William  John  I  walked  into  Darky  and  settled 
him  in  three  rounds.  Best  regards  to  Mr.  Gilray 
and  the  others. 

IL 

November  iqth. 

DEAR  UNCLE, — Our  preceptor  is  against  us  writ- 
ing letters  he  doesn't  see,  so  I  have  to  carry  the 
paper  to  the  dormitory  up  my  waistcoat  and  write 
there,  and  I  wish  old  Poppy  smoked  the  Arcadia 


*8S  MY  LADY  tfZCOTWE. 

Mixture  to  make  him  more  like  you.  Never  mind 
about  the  football  belt,  as  I  got  Johnny  Fox's  for 
two  white  mice  ;  so  I  don't  want  "  Kidnapped," 
which  I  wrote  about  to  you,  as  I  want  you  to 
stick  to  six-shilling  book.  There  is  one  called 
"Dead  Man's  Rock"  that  Dickson  Secundus  has 
heard  about,  and  it  sounds  well ;  but  it  is  never 
safe  to  go  by  the  name,  so  don't  buy  it  till  I  hear 
more  about  it  If  you  see  biographies  of  it  in  the 
newspapers  you  might  send  them  to  me,  as  it 
should  be  about  pirates  by  the  title,  but  the  author 
does  not  give  his  name,  which  is  rather  suspi- 
cious. So,  remember,  don't  buy  it  yet,  and  also 
find  out  price,  whether  illustrated,  and  how 
many  pages.  Ballantyne's  story  this  year  is  about 
the  fire-brigade  ;  but  I  don't  think  I'll  have  it,  as 
he  is  getting  rather  informative,  and  I  have  one 
of  his  about  the  fire-brigade  already.  Of  course 
I  don't  fix  not  to  have  it,  only  don't  buy  it  at 
present  Don't  buy  "  Dead  Man's  Rock  "  either. 
I  am  working  diligently,  and  tell  the  housekeeper 
my  socks  is  all  right  We  may  fix  on  "Dead 
Man's  Rock,"  but  it  is  best  not  to  be  in  a  hurry. 


in. 

November  24/h. 

DEAR  UNCLE, — I  don't  think  I'll  have  "Dead 
Man's  Rock,"  as  Hope  lias  two  stories  out  this 
year,  and  he  is  a  safe  man  to  go  to.  The  worst 
of  it  is  that  they  arethree-and-six  each,  and  Dick- 
son  Secundus  says  they  are  continuations  of  each 
other,  so  it  is  best  to  have  them  both  or  neither. 
The  two  at  three-and-six  would  make  seven  shil- 
lings, and  I  wonder  if  you  would  care  to  go  that 
length  this  year.  I  am  getting  on  first  rate  with 


IfY  LAD Y  NICOTINE.  189 

my  Greek,  and  will  do  capital  if  my  health  does 
not  break  down  with  over-pressure.  Perhaps  if 
you  bought  the  two  you  would  get  them  for  6s. 
6d.  Or  what  do  you  say  to  the  houskeeper's 
giving  me  a  shilling  of  it,  and  not  sending  the 
neckties  ? 

IV. 

November  z6th. 

DEAR  UNCLE, — I  was  disappointed  at  not  hear- 
ing from  you  this  morning,  but  conclude  you  are 
very  busy.  I  don't  want  Hope's  books,  but  I 
think  I'll  rather  have  a  football.  We  played  Glou- 
cester on  Tuesday  and  beat  them  all  to  sticks 
(five  goals  two  tries  to  one  try  ! ! !).  It  would  cost 
75.  6d.,  and  I'll  make  up  the  one-and-six  myself 
out  of  my  pocket-money  ;  but  you  can  pay  it  all 
just  now,  and  then  I'll  pay  you  later  when  I  am 
more  flush  than  I  am  at  present.  I'd  better  buy 
it  myself,  or  you  might  not  get  the  right  kind,  so 
you  might  send  the  money  in  a  postal  order  by 
return.  You  get  the  postal  orders  at  the  nearest 
post-office,  and  inclose  them  in  a  letter.  I  want 
the  football  at  once,  (i)  Not  a  book  of  any  kind 
whatever;  (2)  a  football,  but  I'll  buy  it  myself; 
(3)  price  75.  6d.  ;  (4)  send  postal  order. 


v. 

November 

DEAR  UNCLE, — Kindly  inform  William  John  that 
I  am  in  receipt  of  his  favor  of  yesterday  prox.,  and 
also  your  message,  saying  am  I  sure  it  is  a  foot- 
ball I  want.  I  have  to  inform  you  that  I  have 
changed  my  mind  and  think  I'll  stick  to  a  book 
(or  two  books  according  to  price),  after  all  Dick- 
'9 


ago 


MY  LADY  NICOTINE. 


son  Secundus  has  seen  a  newspaper  biography  of 
"Dead  Man's  Rock"  and  it  is  ripping,  but  un- 
fortunately, there  is  a  lot 'in  it  about  a  girl.  So 
don't  buy  "Dead  Man's  Rock"  forme.  I  told 
Fox  about  Hope's  two  books  and  he  advises  me  to 
get  one  of  them  (35.  6d.),  and  to  take  the  rest  of 
the  money  (zs.  6d.)  in  cash,  making  in  all  six 
shillings.  I  don't  know  if  I  should  like  that  plan, 
though  fair  to  both  parties,  as  Dickson  Secundus 
once  took  money  from  his  father  instead  of  a 
book  and  it  went  like  winking  with  nothing  left 
to  show  for  it ;  but  I'll  think  it  over  between  my 
scholastic  tasks  and  write  to  you  again,  so  do 
nothing  till  you  hear  from  me,  and  mind  I  don't 
want  football. 

VI. 

December  $d. 

DEAR  UNCLE, — Don't  buy  Hope's  books.  There 
is  a  grand  story  out  by  Jules  Verne  about  a  man 
who  made  a  machine  that  enabled  him  to  walk 
on  his  head  through  space  with  seventy-five  illus- 
trations ;  but  the  worst  of  it  is  that  it  costs  half  a 
guinea.  Of  course  I  don't  ask  you  to  give  so 
much  as  that ;  but  it  is  a  pity  it  costs  so  much,  as 
it  is  evidently  a  ripping  book,  and  nothing  like  it. 
Ten-and-six  is  a  lot  of  money.  What  do  you 
think  ?  I  inclose  for  your  consideration  a  news- 
paper account  of  it,  which  says  it  will  fire  the 
imagination  and  teach  boys  to  be  manly  and  self- 
reliant.  Of  course  you  could  not  give  it  to  me  ; 
but  I  think  it  would  do  me  good,  and  am  work- 
ing so  hard  that  I  have  no  time  for  physical  exer- 
cise. It  is  to  be  got  at  all  book-sellers.  P.  S.-— 
Fox  has  read  "Dead  Man's  Rock,"  and  likes  it 
A  I. 


MY  LAD  Y  NICO  TINE.  29 1 

VIL 

December  4/k. 

DEAR  UNCLE, — I  was  thinking  about  Jules 
Verne's  book  last  night  after  I  went  to  bed,  and 
I  see  a  way  of  getting  it  which  both  Dickson 
Secundus  and  Fox  consider  fair.  I  want  you  to 
give  it  to  me  as  my  Christmas  present  for  both 
this  year  and  next  year.  Thus  I  won't  want  a 
present  from  you  next  Christmas  ;  but  I  don't 
mind  that  so  long  as  I  get  this  book.  One  six- 
shilling  book  this  year  and  another  next  year 
would  come  to  I2S. ,  and  Jules  Verne's  book  is 
only  IDS.  6d.,  so  this  plan  will  save  you  is.  6d.  in 
the  long  run.  I  think  you  should  buy  it  at  once, 
in  case  they  are  all  sold  out  before  Christmas. 

VIII. 

December  ^th. 

MY  DEAR  UNCLE, — I  hope  you  hav'n't  bought 
the  book  yet,  as  Dickson  Secundus  has  found  out 
that  there  is  a  shop  in  the  Strand  where  all  the 
books  are  sold  cheap.  You  get  threepence  off 
every  shilling,  so  you  would  get  a  ten-and-six 
book  for  ys.  io^d.  That  will  let  you  get  me  a 
cheapish  one  next  year,  after  all.  I  inclose  the 
address. 

IX. 

December  fth. 

DEAR  UNCLE, — Dickson  Secundus  was  looking 
to-day  at  "The  Formation  of  Character,"  which 
you  gave  me  last  year,  and  he  has  found  out  that 
it  was  bought  in  the  shop  in  the  Strand  that  I 
wrote  you  about,  so  you  got  it  for  4s.  6d.  We 
have  been  looking  up  the  books  I  got  from  you  at 
other  Christmases,  and  they  all  have  the  stamp  on 


292  MY  LADY  NICOTINE. 

them  which  shows  they  were  bought  at  that  shop. 
Some  of  them  I  got  when  I  was  a  kid,  and  that 
was  the  time  you  gave  me  23.  and  $s.  6d.  books  ; 
but  Dickson  Secundus  and  Fox  have  been  helping 
me  to  count  up  how  much  you  owe  me,  as 
follows : 


Nominal  Price, 
f..     s.     d. 

Price  Paid. 
t.     J. 

1880 
1881 
1882 
1883 
1884 
1885 
1886 

"  Sunshine  and  Shadow  "  

0 
0 
0 
0 
0 
0 

o 

2 
2 

3 
3 
3 

o 
o 
6 
6 
6 
o 
o 

I 

I 

2 
2 

3 

4 

6 

6 

f 

"  Honesty  Jack  "  

"  The  Boy  Makes  the  Man  "... 
"  Great  Explorers  "  . 

"  Shooting  the  Rapids  "  

"  The  Formation  of  Character  ". 

i 
o 

5 
*9 

6 

J9 

1)1 

o    6    4# 

Thus  6s.  4j^d.  is  the  exact  sum.  The  best  plan 
will  be  for  you  not  to  buy  anything  for  me  till  I 
get  my  holidays,  when  my  father  is  to  bring  me 
to  London.  Tell  William  John  I  am  coming. 

P.  S. — I  told  my  father  about  the  Arcadia  Mix- 
ture, and  that  is  why  he  is  coming  to  London. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

ENGLISH-GROWN    TOBACCO. 

PETTIGREW  asked  me  to  come  to  his  house  one 
evening  and  test  some  tobacco  that  had  been 
grown  in  his  brother's  Devonshire  garden.  I  had 
so  far  had  no  opportunity  of  judging  for  myself 
whether  this  attempt  to  grow  tobacco  on  English 


M Y  LAD  Y  NICOTIXB.  293 

soil  was  to  succeed.     Very  complimentary  was 

Pettigrew's  assertion  that  he  had  restrained  him- 
self from  trying  the  tobacco  until  we  could  test  it 
in  company.  At  the  dinner-table  while  Mrs.  Pet- 
tigrew  was  present  we  managed  to  talk  for  a  time 
of  other  matters  ;  but  the  tobacco  was  on  our 
minds,  and  I  was  glad  to  see  that,  despite  her 
raillery,  my  hostess  had  a  genuine  interest  in  the 
coming  experiment.  She  drew  an  amusing  pict- 
ure, no  doubt  a  little  exaggerated,  of  her  husband's 
difficulty  in  refraining  from  testing  the  tobacco 
until  my  arrival,  declaring  that  every  time  she 
entered  the  smoking-room  she  found  him  staring 
at  it.  Pettigrew  took  this  in  good  part,  and  in- 
formed me  that  she  had  carried  the  tobacco  sev- 
eral times  into  the  drawing-room  to  show  it 
proudly  to  her  friends.  He  was  very  delighted, 
he  said,  that  I  was  to  remain  over  night,  as  that 
would  give  us  a  long  even-'ag  to  test  the  tobacco 
thoroughly.  A  neighbor  of  hie  had  also  been  ex- 
perimenting ;  and  Pettigrew,  who  has  a  consider- 
erable  sense  of  humor,  told  me  a  diverting  story 
about  this  gentleman  and  his  friends  having  passed 
judgment  on  home-grown  tobacco  after  smoking 
one  pipe  of  it !  We  were  laughing  over  the 
ridiculously  unsatisfactory  character  of  this  test 
(so-called)  when  we  adjourned  to  the  smoking- 
room.  Before  we  did  so  Mrs.  Pettigrew  bade  me 
good-night.  She  had  also  left  strict  orders  with 
the  servants  that  we  were  on  no  account  to  be 
disturbed. 

As  soon  as  we  were  comfortably  seated  in  our 
smoking-chairs,  which  takes  longer  than  some 
people  think,  Pettigrew  offered  me  a  Cabana.  I 
would  have  preferred  to  begin  at  once  with  the 
tobacco ;  but  of  course  he  was  my  host,  and  I 


294  MY  LADY  MICGTINE, 

put  myself  entirely  in  his  hands.  I  noticed  that, 
from  the  moment  his  wife  left  us,  he  was  a  little 
excited,  talking  more  than  is  his  wont.  He 
seemed  to  think  that  he  was  not  doing  his  duty 
as  a  host  if  the  conversation  flagged  for  a  moment, 
and  what  was  still  more  curious,  he  spoke  of 
everything  except  his  garden  tobacco.  I  em- 
phasize this  here  at  starting,  lest  any  one  should 
think  that  I  was  in  any  way  responsible  for  the 
manner  in  which  our  experiment  was  conducted. 
If  fault  there  was,  it  lies  at  Pettigrew's  door.  I 
remember  distinctly  asking  him — not  in  a  half- 
hearted way,  but  boldly — to  produce  his  tobacco. 
I  did  this  at  an  early  hour  of  the  proceedings, 
immediately  after  I  had  lighted  a  second  cigar. 
The  reason  I  took  that  cigar  will  be  obvious  to 
every  gentleman  who  smokes.  Had  I  declined 
it,  Pettigrew  might  have  'thought  that  I  disliked 
the  brand,  which  would  have  been  painful  to  'him. 
However,  he  did  not  at  once  bring  out  the  to- 
bacco ;  indeed,  his  precise  words,  I  remember, 
were  that  we  had  lots  of  time.  As  his  guest  I 
could  not  press  him  further. 

Pettigrew  smokes  more  quickly  than  I  do,  and 
he  had  reached  the  end  of  his  second  cigar  when 
there  was  still  five  minutes  of  mine  left.  It  dis- 
tresses me  to  have  to  say  what  followed.  He 
hastily  lighted  a  third  cigar,  and  then,  unlock- 
ing a  cupboard,  produced  about  two  ounces  of 
his  garden  tobacco.  His  object  was  only  too 
plain.  Having  just  begun  a  third  cigar  he  could 
nor  be  expected  to  try  the  tobacco  at  present,  but 
there  was  nothing  to  prevent  my  trying  it.  I 
regarded  Pettigrew  rather  contemptuously,  and 
then  I  looked  with  much  interest  at  the  tobacco. 
It  was  of  an  inky  color.  When  I  looked  up  I 


MY  LADY  NICOTINE.  295 

caught  Pettigrew's  eye  on  me.  He  withdrew  it 
hurriedly,  but  soon  afterward  I  saw  him  looking 
in  the  same  sly  way  again.  There  was  a  rather 
painful  silence  for  a  time,  and  then  he  asked  me 
if  I  had  anything  to  say.  I  replied  firmly  that  I 
was  looking  forward  to  trying  the  tobacco  with 
very  great  interest.  By  this  time  my  cigar  was 
reduced  to  a  stump,  but,  for  reasons  that  Petti- 
grew  misunderstood,  I  continued  to  smoke  it. 
Somehow  our  chairs  had  got  out  of  position  now, 
and  we  were  sitting  with  our  backs  to  each  other. 
I  felt  that  Pettigrew  was  looking  at  me  covertly 
over  his  shoulder,  and  took  a  side  glance  to  make 
sure  of  this.  Our  eyes  met,  and  I  bit  my  lip.  If 
there  is  one  thing  I  loathe,  it  is  to  be  looked  at  in 
this  shame-faced  manner. 

I  continued  to  smoke  the  stump  of  my  cigar 
until  it  scorched  my  under-lip,  and  at  intervals 
Pettigrew  said,  without  looking  round,  that  my 
cigar  seemed  everlasting.  I  treated  his  innuendo 
with  contempt  ;  but  at  last  I  had  to  let  the  cigar- 
end  go.  Not  to  make  a  fuss,  I  dropped  it  very 
quietly ;  but  Pettigrew  must  have  been  listening 
for  the  sound.  He  wheeled  round  at  once,  and 
pushed  the  garden  tobacco  toward  me.  Never, 
perhaps,  have  I  thought  so  little  of  him  as  at  that 
moment.  My  indignation  probably  showed  in 
my  face,  for  he  drew  back,  saying  that  he  thought 
I  "wanted  to  try  it."  Now  I  had  never  said  that 
I  did  not  want  to  try  it.  The  reader  has  seen 
that  I  went  to  Pettigrew's  house  solely  with  the  ob- 
ject of  trying  the  tobacco.  Had  Pettigrew,  then, 
any  ground  for  insinuating  that  I  did  not  mean  to 
try  it  ?  Restraining  my  passion,  I  lighted  a  third 
cigar,  and  then  put  the  question  to  him  bluntly. 
Pid  he,  or  did  he  not,  mean  to  try  that  tobacco? 


296  MY  LAD  Y  NICOTItfE. 

I  dare  say  I  was  a  little  brusque  ;  but  it  must  be 
remembered  that  I  had  come  all  the  way  from  the 
inn,  at  considerable  inconvenience,  to  give  the 
tobacco  a  thorough  trial. 

As  is  the  way  with  men  of  Pettigrew's  type, 
when  you  corner  them,  he  attempted  to  put  the 
blame  on  me.  "Why  had  I  not  tried  the  to- 
bacco," he  asked,  "instead  of  taking  a  third 
cigar  ?  "  For  reply,  I  asked  bitingly  if  that  was 
not  his  third  cigar.  He  admitted  it  was,  but 
said  that  he  smoked  more  quickly  than  I  did,  as 
if  that  put  his  behavior  in  a  more  favorable  light. 
I  smoked  my  third  cigar  very  slowly,  not  be- 
cause I  wanted  to  put  off  the  experiment ;  for, 
as  every  one  must  have  noted,  I  was  most  anx- 
ious to  try  it,  but  just  to  see  what  would  happen. 
When  Pettigrew  had  finished  his  cigar — and  I 
thought  he  would  never  be  done  with  it — he 
gazed  at  the  garden  tobacco  for  a  time,  and  then 
took  a  pipe  from  the  mantelpiece.  He  held  it 
first  in  one  hand,  then  in  the  other,  and  then  he 
brightened  up  and  said  he  would  clean  his  pipes. 
This  he  did  very  slowly.  When  he  had  cleaned 
all  his  pipes  he  again  looked  at  the  garden  to- 
bacco, which  I  pushed  toward  him.  He  glared 
at  me  as  if  I  had  not  been  doing  a  friendly  thing, 
and  then  said,  in  an  apologetic  manner,  that  he 
would  smoke  a  pipe  until  my  cigar  was  finished. 
I  said  "All  right " cordially,  thinking  that  he  now 
meant  to  begin  the  experiment ;  but  conceive 
my  feelings  when  he  produced  a  jar  of  the  Ar- 
cadia Mixture.  He  filled  his  pipe  with  this  and 
proceeded  to  light  it,  looking  at  me  defiantly. 
His  excuse  about  waiting  till  I  had  finished  was 
too  pitiful  to  take  notice  of.  I  finished  my  cigar 
in  a  few  minutes,  and  now  was  the  time  when  I 


MY  LAD  y  NICOTINE.  297 

would  have  liked  to  begin  the  experiment.  As 
Pettigrew's  guest,  however,  I  could  not  take  that 
liberty,  though  he  impudently  pushed  the  garden 
tobacco  toward  me.  I  produced  my  pipe,  my 
intention  being  only  to  half  fill  it  with  Arcadia, 
so  that  Pettigrew  and  I  might  finish  our  pipes  at 
the  same  time.  Custom,  however,  got  the  better 
of  me,  and  inadvertently  I  filled  my  pipe,  only 
noticing  this  when  it  was  too  late  to  remedy  the 
mistake.  Pettigrew  thus  finished  before  me  ;  and 
though  I  advised  him  to  begin  on  the  garden  to- 
bacco without  waiting  for  me,  he  insisted  on 
smoking  half  a  pipeful  of  Arcadia,  just  to  keep 
me  company.  It  was  an  extraordinary  thing 
that,  try  as  we  might,  we  could  not  finish  our 
pipes  at  the  same  time. 

About  2  A.  M.  Pettigrew  said  something  about 
going  to  bed ;  and  I  rose  and  put  down  my  pipe. 
We  stood  looking  at  the  fireplace  for  a  time,  and 
he  expressed  regret  that  I  had  to  leave  so  early  in 
the  morning.  Then  he  put  out  two  of  the  lights, 
and  after  that  we  both  looked  at  the  garden  to- 
bacco. He  seemed  to  have  a  sudden  idea;  for 
rather  briskly  he  tied  the  tobacco  up  into  a  neat 
paper  parcel  and  handed  it  to  me,  saying  that  I 
would  perhaps  give  it  a  trial  at  the  inn.  I  took 
it  without  a  word,  but  opening  my  hand  suddenly 
I  let  it  fall.  My  first  impulse  was  to  pick  it  up  ; 
but  then  it  struck  me  that  Pettigrew  had  not  no- 
ticed what  had  happened,  and  that,  were  he  to 
see  me  pick  it  up,  he  might  think  that  I  had  not 
taken  sufficient  care  of  it.  So  I  let  it  lie,  and, 
bidding  him  good-night,  went  off  to  bed.  I  was 
at  the  foot  of  the  stair  when  I  thought  that,  after 
all,  I  should  like  the  tobacco,  so  I  returned.  I 
could  not  see  the  package  anywhere,  but  some- 


298  MY  LADY  NICOTINE. 

thing  was  fizzing  up  the  chimney,  and  Pettigrew 
had  the  tongs  in  his  hand.  He  muttered  some- 
thing about  his  wife  taking  up  wrong  notions. 
Next  morning  that  lady  was  very  satirical  about 
our  having  smoked  the  whole  two  ounces. 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

HOW     HEROES    SMOKE. 

ON  a  tiger-skin  from  the  ice-clad  regions  of  the 
sunless  north,  recline  the  heroes  of  Ouida,  rose- 
scented  cigars  in  their  mouths  ;  themselves  glori- 
ously indolent  and  disdainful,  but,  perhaps,  hud- 
dled a  little  too  closely  together  on  account  of 
the  limited  accommodation.  Strathmore  is  here. 
But  I  never  felt  sure  of  Strathmore.  Was  there 
not  less  in  him  than  met  the  eye  ?  His  place, 
Whiteladies,  was  a  home  for  kings  and  queens  ; 
but  he  was  not  the  luxurious,  magnanimous  creat- 
ure he  feigned  to  be.  A  host  may  be  known  by 
the  cigars  he  keeps  ;  and,  though  it  is  perhaps  a 
startling  thing  to  say,  we  have  good  reason  for 
believing  that  Strathmore  did  not  buy  good  cigars. 
I  question  very  much  whether  he  had  many  Ha- 
vanas,  even  of  the  second  quality,  at  Whiteladies  ; 
if  he  had,  he  certainly  kept  them  locked  up. 
Only  once  does  he  so  much  as  refer  to  them 
when  at  his  own  place,  and  then  in  the  most 
general  and  suspicious  way.  "Bah!"  he  ex- 
claims to  a  friend  ;  "there  is  Phil  smoking  these 
wretched  musk-scented  cigarettes  again  !  they  are 
only  fit  for  Lady  Georgie  or  Eulalie  Papellori. 
What  taste,  when  there  are  my  Havanas  and 


MY  LADY  NICOTINE.  299 

cheroots  ! "  The  remark,  in  whatever  way  con- 
sidered, is  suggestive.  In  the  first  place,  it  is 
made  late  in  the  evening,  after  Strathmore  and 
his  friend  have  left  the  smoking-room.  Thus  it 
is  a  safe  observation.  I  would  not  go  so  far  as 
to  say  that  he  had  no  Havanas  in  the  house ;  the 
likelihood  is  that  he  had  a  few  in  his  cigar-case, 
kept  there  for  show  rather  than  use.  These,  if  I 
understand  the  man,  would  be  a  good  brand,  but 
of  small  size — perhaps  Reinas — and  they  would 
hardly  be  of  a  well-known  crop.  In  color  they 
would  be  dark — say  maduro — and  he  would  ex- 
plain that  he  bought  them  because  he  liked  full- 
flavored  weeds.  Possibly  he  had  a  Villar  y  Vil- 
lar  box  with  six  or  eight  in  the  bottom  of  it ;  but 
boxes  are  not  cigars.  What  he  did  provide  his 
friends  with  was  Manillas.  He  smoked  them 
himself,  and  how  careful  he  was  of  them  is  seen 
on  every  other  page.  He  is  constantly  stopping 
in  the  middle  of  his  conversation  to  "curl  a  loose 
leaf  round  his  Manilla;"  when  one  would  have 
expected  a  hero  like  Strathmore  to  fling  away  a 
cigar  when  its  leaves  began  to  untwist,  and  light 
another.  So  thrifty  is  Strathmore  that  he  even 
laboriously  ' '  curls  the  leaves  round  his  cigarettes  " 
— he  does  not  so  much  as  pretend  that  they  are 
Egyptian  ;  nay,  even  when  quarreling  with  Errol 
his  beloved  friend  (whom  he  shoots  through  the 
heart),  he  takes  a  cigarette  from  his  mouth  and 
"  winds  a  loosened  leaf"  round  it. 

If  Strathmore's  Manillas  were  Captain  Generals 
they  would  cost  him  about  245.  a  hundred.  The 
probability,  however,  is  that  they  were  of  inferior 
quality;  say,  iys.  6d.  It  need  hardly  be  said 
that  a  good  Manilla  does  not  constantly  require 
to  have  its  leaves  "curled."  When  Errol  goes 


300  MY  LADY  NICOTINE. 

into  the  garden  to  smoke,  he  has  every  other 
minute  to  "strike  a  fusee  ;  "  from  which  it  may 
be  inferred  that  his  cigar  frequently  goes  out. 
This  is  in  itself  suspicious.  Errol,  too,  is  more 
than  once  seen  by  his  host  wandering  in  the 

f  rounds  at  night,  with  a  cigar  between  his  teeth, 
trathmore  thinks  his  susceptible  friend  has  a  love 
affair  on  hand ;  but  is  it  not  at  least  as  probable 
an  explanation  that  Errol  had  a  private  supply 
of  cigars  at  Whiteladies,  and  from  motives  of 
delicacy  did  not  like  to  smoke  them  in  his  host  s 
presence?  Once,  indeed,  we  do  see  Strath- 
more  smoking  a  good  cigar,  though  we  are  not 
told  how  he  came  by  it.  When  talking  of  the 
Vavasour,  he  "sticks  his  penknife  through  his 
Cabana,"  with  the  object,  obviously,  of  smoking 
it  to  the  bitter  end.  Another  lady  novelist,  who 
is  also  an  authority  on  tobacco,  Miss  Rhoda 
Broughton,  contemptuously  dismisses  a  claimant 
for  the  heroship  of  one  of  her  stories,  as  the  kind 
of  man  who  turns  up  his  trousers  at  the  foot.  It 
would  have  been  just  as  withering  to  say  that  he 
stuck  a  penknife  through  his  cigars. 

There  is  another  true  hero  with  me,  whose 
creator  has  unintentionally  misrepresented  him. 
It  is  he  of  "Comin'  thro'  the  Rye,"  a  gentleman 
whom  the  maidens  of  the  nineteenth  century  will 
not  willingly  let  die.  He  is  grr.r.f!.  no  doubt ;  and 
yet,  the  more  one  thinks  about  him,  the  plainer 
it  becomes  that  had  the  heroine  married  him  she 
would  have  been  bitterly  disenchanted.  In  her 
company  he  was  magnanimous,  god-like,  prodi- 
gal ;  but  in  his  smoking-room  he  showed  himself 
in  his  true  colors.  Every  lady  will  remember  the 
scene  where  he  rushes  to  the  aeroine's  home  and 
implores  her  to  return  with  him  to  the  bedside  of 


MY  LAD  Y  NICO  TINE.  301 

his  dying  wife.  The  sudden  announcement  that 
his  wife — whom  he  had  thought  in  a  good  state 
of  health — is  dying,  is  surely  enough  to  startle 
even  a  miser  out  of  his  niggardliness,  much  less  a 
hero;  and  yet  what  do  we  find  Vasher  doing? 
The  heroine,  in  frantic  excitement,  has  to  pass 
through  his  smoking-room,  and  on  the  table  she 
sees — what?  "  A  half-smoked  cigar."  He  was 
in  the  middle  of  it  when  a  servant  came  to  tell  him 
of  his  wife's  dying  request  ;  and,  before  hasten- 
ing to  execute  her  wishes,  he  carefully  laid  what 
was  left  of  his  cigar  upon  the  table — meaning  of 
course,  to  relight  it  when  he  came  back.  Though 
she  did  not  think  so,  our  heroine's  father  was  a 
much  more  remarkable  man  than  Vasher.  He 
"blew  out  long,  comfortable  clouds "  that  made 
the  whole  of  his  large  family  "cough  and  wink 
again."  No  ordinary  father  could  do  that. 

Among  my  smoking-room  favorites  is  the  hero 
of  Miss  Adeline  Sergeant's  story,  "Touch  and 
Go."  He  is  a  war  correspondent ;  and  when  he 
sees  a  body  of  the  enemy  bearing  down  upon 
him  and  *he  wounded  officer  whom  he  has 
sought  to  save,  he  imperturbably  offers  his  com- 
panion a  cigar.  They  calmly  smoke  on  while 
the  foe  gallop  up.  There  is  something  grand  in 
this,  even  though  the  kind  of  cigar  is  not  men- 
tioned. 

I  see  a  bearded  hero,  with  slouch  hat  and 
shepherd's  crook,  a  clay  pipe  in  his  mouth.  He 
is  a  Bohemian — ever  a  popular  type  of  hero  ;  and 
the  Bohemian  is  to  be  known  all  the  world  over 
by  the  pipe,  which  he  prefers  to  a  cigar.  The 
tall,  scornful  gentleman  who  leans  lazily  against 
the  door,  "blowing  great  clouds  of  smoke  into 
the  air,"  is  the  hero  of  a  hundred  novels.  That 


302  MY  LAD  Y  NICOTINE. 

is  how  he  is  always  standing  when  the  heroine, 
having  need  of  something  she  has  left  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, glides  down  the  stairs  at  night  in  her 
dressing-gown  (her  beautiful  hair,  released  from  its 
ribbons,  streaming  down  her  neck  and  shoulders), 
and  comes  most  unexpectedly  upon  him.  He  is 
young.  The  senior,  over  whose  face  "a  smile 
flickers  for  a  moment  "  when  the  heroine  says 
something  naive,  and  whom  she  (entirely  mis- 
understanding her  feelings)  thinks  she  hates, 
smokes  unostentatiously  ;  but  though  a  little  in- 
clined to  quiet  "  chaff,"  he  is  a  man  of  deep  feel- 
ing. By  and  by  he  will  open  out  and  gather  her 
up  in  his  arms.  The  scorner's  chair  is  filled.  I 
see  him,  shadow-like,  a  sad-eyed,  blast  gentleman, 
who  has  been  adored  by  all  the  beauties  of  fifteen 
seasons,  and  yet  speaks  of  woman  with  a  con- 
temptuous sneer.  Great,  however,  is  love  ;  and 
the  vulgar  little  girl  who  talks  slang  will  prove  to 
him  in  our  next  volume  that  there  is  still  one 
peerless  beyond  all  others  of  her  sex.  Ah,  a 
wondrous  thing  is  love !  On  every  side  of  me 
there  are  dark,  handsome  men,  with  something 
sinister  in  their  smile,  "  casting  away  their  cigars 
with  a  muffled  curse."  No  novel  would  be  com- 
plete without  them.  When  they  are  foiled  by  the 
brave  girl  of  the  narrative,  it  is  the  recognized 
course  with  them  to  fling  away  their  cigars  with  a 
muffled  curse.  Any  kind  of  curse  would  do,  but 
muffled  ones  are  preferred. 


MY  LAD  Y  NICO TINE.  303 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THE  GHOST  OF  CHRISTMAS-EVE. 

A  FEW  years  ago,  as  some  may  remember,  a 
startling  ghost  paper  appeared  in  the  monthly 
organ  of  the  Society  for  Haunting  Houses.  The 
writer  guaranteed  the  truth  of  his  statement,  and 
even  gave  the  name  of  the  Yorkshire  manor  house 
in  which  the  affair  took  place.  The  article  and  the 
discussion  to  which  it  gave  rise  agitate?!  me  a 
good  deal,  and  I  consulted  Pettigrew  about  the 
advisability  of  clearing  up  the  mystery.  The 
writer  wrote  that  he  "  distinctly  saw  his  arm  pass 
through  the  apparition  and  come  out  at  the  other 
side,"  and  indeed  I  still  remember  his  saying  so 
next  morning.  He  had  a  scared  face,  but  I  had 
presence  of  mind  to  continue  eating  my  rolls  and 
marmalade  as  if  my  brier  had  nothing  to  do  with 
the  miraculous  affair. 

Seeing  that  he  made  a  "  paper"  of  it,  I  suppose 
he  is  justified  in  touching  up  the  incidental  details. 
He  says,  for  instance,  that  we  were  told  the  story 
of  the  ghost  which  is  said  to  haunt  the  house  just 
before  going  to  bed.  As  far  as  I  remember,  it 
was  only  mentioned  at  luncheon,  and  then 
skeptically.  Instead  of  there  being  snow  falling 
outside  and  an  eerie  wind  wailing  through  the 
skeleton  trees,  the  night  was  still  muggy.  Lastly, 
I  did  not  know,  until  the  journal  reached  my 
hands,  that  he  was  put  into  the  room  known  as  the 
Haunted  Chamber,  nor  that  in  that  room  the  fire 
is  noted  for  casting  weird  shadows  upon  the  walls. 
This,  however,  may  be  so.  The  legend  of  the 


304  MY  LADY  NICO TINE. 

manor  house  ghost  he  tells  precisely  as  it 
is  known  to  me.  The  tragedy  dates  back  to  the 
time  of  Charles  I.,  and  is  led  up  to  by  a  pathetic 
love  story,  which  I  need  not  give.  Suffice  it  that 
for  seven  days  and  nights  the  old  steward  had 
been  anxiously  awaiting  the  return  of  his  young 
master  and  mistress  from  their  honeymoon.  On 
Christmas-eve,  after  he  had  gone  to  bed,  there 
was  a  great  clanging  of  the  door-bell.  Flinging 
on  a  dressing-gown,  he  hastened  downstairs. 
According  to  the  story,  a  number  of  servants 
watched  him,  and  saw  by  the  light  of  his  candle 
that  his  face  was  an  ashy  white.  He  took  off  the 
chains  of  the  door,  unbolted  it,  and  pulled  it  open. 
What  he  saw  no  human  being  knows  ;  but  it  must 
have  been  something  awful,  for,  without  a  cry, 
the  old  steward  fell  dead  in  the  hall.  Perhaps 
the  strangest  part  of  the  story  is  this  :  that  the 
shadow  of  a  burly  man,  holding  a  pistol  in  his 
hand,  entered  by  the  open  door,  stepped  over  the 
steward's  body,  and,  gliding  up  the  stairs,  dis- 
appeared, no  one  could  say  where.  Such  is  the 
legend.  I  shall  not  tell  the  many  ingenious  ex- 
planations of  it  that  have  been  offered.  Every 
Christmas-eve,  however,  the  silent  scene  is  said 
to  be  gone  through  again  ;  and  tradition  declares 
that  no  person  lives  for  twelve  months  at  whom 
the  ghostly  intruder  points  his  pistol. 

On  Christmas  day  the  gentleman  who  tells  the 
tale  in  a  scientific  journal  created  some  sensation 
at  the  breakfast-table  by  solemnly  asserting  that 
he  had  seen  the  ghost.  Most  of  the  men  present 
scouted  his  story,  which  may  be  condensed  into 
a  few  words.  He  had  retired  to  his  bedroom  at 
a  fairly  early  hour,  and  as  he  opened  fie  door  his 
candle-light  was  blown  out.  He  tried  to  get  a 


M Y  LAD  Y  NICO  TINE.  305 

light  from  the  fire,  but  it  was  too  low,  and  event- 
ually he  went  to  bed  in  the  semi-darkness.  He 
was  wakened — he  did  not  know  at  what  hour — 
by  the  clanging  of  a  bell.  He  sat  up  in  bed,  and 
the  ghost  story  came  in  a  rush  to  his  mind.  His 
fire  was  dead,  and  the  room  was  consequently 
dark ;  yet  by  and  by  he  knew,  though  he  heard 
no  sound,  that  his  door  had  opened.  He  cried 
out,  "Who  is  that  ?"  but  got  no  answer.  By  an 
effort  he  jumped  up  and  went  to  the  door,  which 
was  ajar.  His  bedroom  was  on  the  first  floor, 
and  looking  up  the  stairs  he  could  see  nothing. 
He  felt  a  cold  sensation  at  his  heart,  however, 
when  he  looked  the  other  way.  Going  slowly 
and  without  a  sound  down  the  stairs,  was  an  old 
man  in  a  dressing-gown.  He  carried  a  candle. 
From  the  top  of  the  stairs  only  part  of  the  hall 
is  visible,  but  as  the  apparition  disappeared  the 
watcher  had  the  courage  to  go  down  a  few  steps 
after  him.  At  first  nothing  was  to  be  seen,  for  the 
candle-light  had  vanished.  A  dim  light,  however, 
entered  by  the  long,  narrow  windows  which  flank 
the  hall  door,  and  after  a  moment  the  on-looker 
could  see  that  the  hall  was  empty.  He  was  mar- 
veling at  this  sudden  disappearance  of  the  steward, 
when,  to  his  horror,  he  saw  a  body  fall  upon  the 
hall  door  within  a  few  feet  of  the  door.  The 
watcher  cannot  say  whether  he  cried  out,  nor  how 
long  he  stood  there  trembling.  He  came  to  him- 
self with  a  start  as  he  realized  that  something  was 
coming  up  the  stairs.  Fear  prevented  his  taking 
flight,  and  in  a  moment  the  thing  was  at  his  side. 
Then  he  saw  indistinctly  that  it  was  not  the  figure 
he  had  seen  descend.  He  saw  a  younger  man, 
in  a  heavy  overcoat,  but  with  no  hat  on  his  head. 
He  wore  on  his  face  a  look  of  extravagant  triumph. 

20 


306  MY  LADY  NICOTINE. 

The  guest  boldly  put  out  his  hand  toward  the 
figure.  To  his  amazement  his  arm  went  through 
it.  The  ghost  paused  for  a  moment  and  looked 
behind  it.  It  was  then  the  watcher  realized  that 
it  carried  a  pistol  in  its  right  hand.  He  was  by 
this  time  in  a  highly  strung  condition,  and  he 
stood  trembling  lest  the  pistol  should  be  pointed 
at  him.  The  apparition,  however,  rapidly  glided 
up  the  stairs  and  was  soon  lost  to  sight.  Such 
are  the  main  facts  of  the  story,  none  of  which  I 
contradicted  at  the  time. 

I  cannot  say  absolutely  that  I  can  clear  up  this 
mystery,  but  my  suspicions  are  confirmed  by  a 
good  deal  of  circumstantial  evidence.  This  will 
not  be  understood  unless  I  explain  my  strange 
infirmity.  Wherever  I  went  I  used  to  be  troubled 
with  a  presentiment  that  I  had  left  my  pipe  behind. 
Often,  even  at  the  dinner-table,  I  paused  in  the 
middle  of  a  sentence  as  if  stricken  with  sudden 
pain.  Then  my  hand  went  down  to  my  pocket. 
Sometimes,  even  after  I  felt  my  pipe,  I  had  a  con- 
viction that  it  was  stopped,  and  only  by  a  des- 
perate effort  did  I  keep  myself  from  producing  it 
and  blowing  down  it.  I  distinctly  remember 
once  dreaming  three  nights  in  succession  that  I 
was  on  the  Scotch  express  without  it.  More  than 
once,  I  know,  I  have  wandered  in  my  sleep,  look- 
ing for  it  in  all  sorts  of  places,  and  after  I  went 
to  bed  I  generally  jumped  out,  just  to  make  sure 
of  it.  My  strong  belief,  then,  is  that  I  was  the 
ghost  seen  by  the  writer  of  the  paper.  I  fancy 
that  I  rose  in  my  sleep,  lighted  a  candle,  and 
wandered  down  to  the  hall  to  feel  if  my  pipe  was 
safe  in  my  coat,  which  was  hanging  there.  The 
light  had  gone  out  when  I  was  in  the  hall. 
Probably  the  body  seen  to  fall  on  the  hall  floor 


MY  LADY  NIC '0 TINE. 


3°7 


was  some  other  coat  which  I  had  flung  there  to 
get  more  easily  at  my  own.  I  cannot  account 
for  the  bell  ;  but  perhaps  the  gentleman  in  the 
Haunted  Chamber  dreamed  that  part  of  the  affair. 
I  had  put  on  the  overcoat  before  reascending  ;  in- 
deed, I  may  say  that  next  morning  I  was  sur- 
prised to  find  it  on  a  chair  in  my  bedroom,  also  to 
notice  that  there  were  several  long  streaks  of 
candle-grease  on  my  dressing-gown.  I  conclude 
that  the  pistol,  which  gave  my  face  such  a  look 
of  triumph,  was  my  brier,  which  I  found  in  the 
morning  beneath  my  pillow.  The  strangest  thing 
of  all,  perhaps,  is  that  when  I  awoke  there  was  a 
smell  of  tobacco  smoke  in  the  bedroom. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

NOT  THE  ARCADIA. 

THOSE  who  do  not  know  the  Arcadia  may  have 
a  mixture  that  their  uneducated  palate  loves,  but 
they  are  always  ready  to  try  other  mixtures.  The 
Arcadian,  however,  will  never  help  himself  from 
an  outsider's  pouch.  Nevertheless,  there  was  one 
black  week  when  we  all  smoked  the  ordinary  to- 
baccoes.  Owing  to  a  terrible  oversight  on  the  part 
of  our  purveyor,  there  was  no  Arcadia  to  smoke. 

We  ought  to  have  put  our  pipes  aside  and  existed 
on  cigars  ;  but  the  pipes  were  old  friends,  and 
desert  them  we  could  not.  Each  of  us  bought  a 
different  mixture,  but  they  tasted  alike  and  were 
equally  abominable.  I  fell  ill.  Doctor  South- 
wick,  knowing  no  better,  called  my  malady  by  a 
learned  name,  but  I  knew  to  what  I  owed  it. 


308  MY  LAD  Y  NICO  TINE. 

Never  shall  I  forget  my  delight  when  Jemmy  broke 
into  my  room  one  day  with  a  pound  tin  of  the 
Arcadia.  Weak  though  I  was,  I  opened  my 
window,  and  seizing  the  half-empty  packet  of 
tobacco  that  had  made  me  ill,  hurled  it  into  the 
street.  The  tobacco  scattered  before  it  fell,  but 
I  sat  at  the  window  gloating  over  the  packet, 
which  lay,  a  dirty  scrap  of  paper,  where  every  cab 
might  pass  over  it.  What  I  call  the  street  is  more 
strictly  a  square,  for  my  windows  were  at  the  back 
of  the  inn,  and  their  view  was  somewhat  plebeian. 
The  square  is  the  meeting-place  of  five  streets, 
and  at  the  corner  of  each  the  paper  was  caught 
up  in  a  draught  that  bore  it  along  to  the  next. 

Here,  it  may  be  thought,  I  gladly  forgot  the 
cause  of  my  troubles,  but  I  really  watched  the 
paper  for  days.  My  doctor  came  in  while  I  was 
still  staring  at  it,  and  instead  of  prescribing  more 
medicine,  he  made  a  bet  with  me.  It  was  that 
the  scrap  of  paper  would  disappear  before  the 
dissolution  of  the  government.  I  said  it  would 
be  fluttering  around  after  the  government  was 
dissolved,  and  if  I  lost,  the  doctor  was  to  get  a 
new  stethoscope.  If  I  won,  my  bill  was  to  be 
accounted  discharged.  Thus,  strange  as  it 
seemed,  I  had  now  cause  to  take  a  friendly  in- 
terest in  paper  that  I  had  previously  loathed. 
Formerly  the  sight  of  it  made  me  miserable  ;  now 
I  dreaded  losing  it.  But  I  looked  for  it  when  I 
rose  in  the  morning,  and  I  could  tell  at  once  by 
its  appearance  what  kind  of  night  it  had  passed. 
Nay,  more  :  I  believed  I  was  able  to  decide  how 
the  wind  had  been  since  sundown,  whether  there 
had  been  much  traffic,  and  if  the  fire-engine  had 
been  out.  There  is  a  fire-station  within  view  of 
he  windows,  and  the  paper  had  a  specially 


\ 

MY  LAD  Y  NICOTINE.  309 

crushed  appearance,  as  if  the  heavy  engine  ran 
over  it  However,  though  I  felt  certain  that  I 
could  pick  my  scrap  of  paper  out  of  a  thousand 
scraps,  the  doctor  insisted  on  making  sure.  The 
bet  was  consigned  to  writing  on  the  very  piece 
of  paper  that  suggested  it.  The  doctor  went  out 
and  captured  it  himself.  On  the  back  of  it  the 
conditions  of  the  wager  were  formally  drawn  up 
and  signed  by  both  of  us.  Then  we  opened  the 
window  and  the  paper  was  cast  forth  again.  The 
doctor  solemnly  promised  not  to  interfere  with  it, 
and  I  gave  him  a  convalescent'  sword  of  honor 
to  report  progress  honestly. 

Several  days  elapsed,  and  I  no  longer  found 
time  heavy  on  my  hands.  My  attention  was 
divided  between  two  papers,  the  scrap  in  the 
square  and  my  daily  copy  of  the  "Times."  Any 
morning  the  one  might  tell  me  that  I  had  lost  my 
bet,  or  the  other  that  I  had  won  it ;  and  I  hurried 
to  the  window  fearing  that  the  paper  had  migrated 
to  another  square,  and  hoping  my  ' '  Times  "  might 
contain  the  information  that  the  government  was 
out.  I  felt  that  neither  could  last  very  much  longer. 
It  was  remarkable  how  much  my  interest  in  pol- 
itics had  increased  since  I  made  this  wager. 

The  doctor,  I  believe,  relied  chiefly  on  the 
scavengers.  He  thought  they  were  sure  to  pounce 
upon  the  scrap  soon.  I  did  not,  however,  see 
why  I  should  fear  them.  They  came  into  the 
square  so  seldom,  and  stayed  so  short  a  time  when 
they  did  come,  that  I  disregarded  them.  If  the 
doctor  knew  how  much  they  kept  away  he  might 
say  I  bribed  them.  But  perhaps  he  knew  their 
ways.  I  got  a  fright  one  day  from  a  dog.  It 
was  one  of  those  low-looking  animals  that  infest 
the  square  occasionally  in  half  dozens,  but  seldom 


3 1 0  MY  LADY  NICO TINE. 

alone.  It  ran  up  one  of  the  side  streets,  and  be- 
fore I  realized  what  had  happened  it  had  the  paper 
in  its  mouth.  Then  it  stood  still  and  looked 
around.  For  me  that  was  indeed  a  trying  mo- 
ment. I  stood  at  the  window. 

The  impulse  seized  me  to  fling  open  the  sash 
and  shake  my  fist  at  the  brute  ;  but  luckily  I  re- 
membered in  time  my  promise  to  the  doctor.  I 
question  if  man  was  ever  so  interested  in  mongrel 
before.  At  one  of  the  street  corners  there  was  a 
house  to  let,  being  meantime,  as  I  had  reason  to 
believe,  in  the  care  of  the  wife  of  a  police  con- 
stable. A  cat  was  often  to  be  seen  coming  up 
from  the  area  to  lounge  in  the  doorway.  To  that 
cat  I  firmly  believe  I  owe  it  that  I  did  not  then  lose 
my  wager.  Faithful  animal  !  it  came  up  to  the 
door,  it  stretched  itself ;  in  the  act  of  doing  so  it 
caught  sight  of  the  dog,  and  put  up  its  back.  The 
dog,  resenting  this  demonstration  of  feeling, 
dropped  the  scrap  of  paper  and  made  for  the  cat. 
I  sunk  back  into  my  chair. 

There  was  a  greater  disaster  to  be  recorded 
next  day.  A  working-man  in  the  square,  looking 
about  him  for  a  pipe-light,  espied  the  paper  frisk- 
ing near  the  curb-stone.  He  picked  it  up  with 
the  obvious  intention  of  lighting  it  at  the  stove 
of  a  wandering  vender  of  hot  chestnuts  who  had 
just  crossed  the  square.  The  working-man  fol- 
lowed, twisting  the  paper  as  he  went,  when — 
good  luck  again  ! — a  young  butcher  almost  ran 
into  him,  and  the  loafer,  with  true  presence  of 
mind,  at  once  asked  him  for  a  match.  At  any 
rate  a  match  passed  between  them  ;  and,  to  my 
infinite  relief,  the  paper  was  flung  away. 

I  concealed  the  cause  of  my  excitement  from 
William  John.  He  nevertheless  wondered  to  see 


MY  LAD  Y  NICOTINE.  31 1 

me  run  to  the  window  every  time  the  wind  seemed 
to  be  rising,  and  getting  anxious  when  it  rained. 
Seeing  that  my  health  prevented  my  leaving  the 
house,  he  could  not  make  out  why  I  should  be  so 
interested  in  the  weather.  Once  I  thought  he 
was  fairly  on  the  scent.  A  sudden  blast  of  wind 
had  caught  up  the  paper  and  whirled  it  high  in 
the  air.  I  may  have  uttered  an  ejaculation,  for 
he  came  hurrying  to  the  window.  He  found  me 
pointing  unwittingly  to  what  was  already  a  white 
speck  sailing  to  the  roof  of  the  fire-station.  "Is 
it  a  pigeon  ? "  he  asked.  I  caught  at  the  idea. 
"Yes,  a  carrier-pigeon,"  I  murmured  in  reply; 
"they  sometimes,  I  believe,  send  messages  to 
the  fire-stations  in  that  way."  Coolly  as  I  said 
this,  I  was  conscious  of  grasping  the  window-sill 
in  pure  nervousness  till  the  scrap  began  to  flutter 
back  into  the  square. 

Next  it  was  squeezed  between  two  of  the  bars 
of  a  drain.  That  was  the  last  I  saw  of  it,  and 
the  following  morning  the  doctor  had  won  his 
stethoscope — only  by  a  few  hours,  however,  for 
the  government's  end  was  announced  in  the 
evening  papers.  My  defeat  discomfited  me  for  a 
little,  but  soon  I  was  pleased  that  I  had  lost  I 
would  not  care  to  win  a  bet  over  any  mixture  but 
the  Arcadia. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

A  FACE  THAT   HAUNTED   MARRIOT. 

"Tnis  is  not  a  love  affair,"  Harriot  shouted, 
apologetically. 

He  had  sat  the  others  out  again,  but  when  I 


312  MY  LAD  Y  NICO  TINE. 

saw  his  intention   I  escaped  into  my  bedroom, 
and  now  refused  to  come  out. 

"Look  here,"  he  cried,  changing  his  tone,  "if 
you  don't  come  out  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  through 
the  keyhole.  It  is  the  most  extraordinary  story, 
and  I  can't  keep  it  to  myself.  On  my  word  of 
honor  it  isn't  a  love  affair — at  least,  not  exactly. " 

I  let  him  talk  after  I  had  gone  to  bed. 

"  You  must  know,"  he  said,  dropping  cigarette 
ashes  onto  my  pillow  every  minute,  "that  some 
time  ago  I  fell  in  with  Jack  Goring's  father,  Col- 
onel Goring.  Jack  and  I  had  been  David  and 
Jonathan  at  Cambridge,  and  though  we  had  not 
met  for  years,  I  looked  forward  with  pleasure  to 
meeting  him  again.  He  was  a  widower,  and  his 
father  and  he  kept  joint  house.  But  the  house 
was  dreary  now,  for  the  colonel  was  alone  in  it. 
Jack  was  off  on  a  scientific  expedition  to  the 
Pacific  ;  all  the  girls  had  been  married  for  years. 
After  dinner  my  host  and  I  had  rather  a  dull  hour 
in  the  smoking-room.  I  could  not  believe  that 
Jack  had  grown  very  stout.  '  I'll  show  you  his 
photograph/  said  the  colonel.  An  album  was 
brought  down  from  a  dusty  shelf,  and  then  I  had 
to  admit  that  my  old  friend  had  become  positively 
corpulent.  But  it  is  not  Jack  I  want  to  speak 
about.  I  turned  listlessly  over  the  pages  of  the 
album,  stopping  suddenly  at  the  face  of  a  beauti- 
ful girl.  You  are  not  asleep,  are  you  ? 

"  I  am  not  naturally  sentimental,  as  you  know, 
and  even  now  I  am  not  prepared  to  admit  that  I 
fell  in  love  with  this  face.  It  was  not,  I  think, 
that  kind  of  attraction.  Possibly  I  should  have 
passed  the  photograph  by  had  it  not  suggested 
old  times  to  me — old  times  with  a  veil  over 
them,  for  I  could  not  identify  the  face.  That  I 


MY  LADY  NICOTINE. 


3'3 


had  at  some  period  of  my  life  known  the  original 
I  felt  certain,  but  I  tapped  my  memory  in  vain. 
The  lady  was  a  lovely  blonde,  with  a  profusion 
of  fair  hair,  and  delicate  features  that  were  Roman 
when  they  were  not  Greek.  To  describe  a  beau- 
tiful woman  is  altogether  beyond  me.  No  doubt 
this  face  had  faults.  I  fancy,  for  instance,  that 
there  was  little  character  in  the  chin,  and  that  the 
eyes  were  '  melting '  rather  than  expressive.  It 
was  a  vignette,  the  hands  being  clasped  rather 
fancifully  at  the  back  of  the  head.  My  fingers 
drummed  on  the  album  as  I  sat  there  pondering  ; 
but  when  or  where  I  had  met  the  original  I  could 
not  (Jecide.  The  colonel  could  give  me  no  in- 
formation. The  album  was  Jack's,  he  said,  and 
probably  had  not  been  opened  for  years.  The 
photograph,  too,  was  an  old  one  ;  he  was  sure  it 
had  been  in  the  house  long  before  his  son's  mar- 
riage, so  that  (and  here  the  hard-hearted  old  gen- 
tleman chuckled)  it  could  no  longer  be  like  the 
original.  As  he  seemed  inclined  to  become  witty 
at  my  expense,  I  closed  the  album,  and  soon 
afterward  I  went  away.  I  say,  wake  up  ! 

"From  that  evening  the  face  haunted  me.  I 
do  not  mean  that  it  possessed  me  to  the  exclusion 
of  everything  else,  but  at  odd  moments  it  would 
rise  before  me,  and  then  I  fell  into  a  reverie. 
You  must  have  noticed  my  thoughtfulness  of  late. 
Often  I  have  laid  down  my  paper  at  the  club  and 
tried  to  think  back  to  the  original.  She  was  prob- 
ably better  known  to  Jack  Goring  than  to  myself. 
All  I  was  sure  of  was  that  she  had  been  known  to 
both  of  us.  Jack  and  I  had  first  met  at  Cam- 
bridge. I  thought  over  the  ladies  I  had  known 
there,  especially  those  who  had  been  friends  of 
Goring's.  Jack  had  never  been  a  '  lady's  man ' 


3 1 4  MY  LADY  NICO TINE. 

precisely :  but,  as  he  used  to  say,  comparing 
himself  with  me,  '  he  had  a  heart.'  The  annals  of 
our  Cambridge  days  were  searched  in  vain.  I 
tried  the  country  house  in  which  he  and  I  had 
spent  a  good  many  of  our  vacations.  Suddenly  I 
remembered  the  reading-party  in  Devonshire — 
but  no,  she  was  dark.  Once  Jack  and  I  had  a 
romantic  adventure  in  Glencoe  in  which  a  lady 
and  her  daughter  were  concerned.  We  tried  to 
make  the  most  of  it ;  but  in  our  hearts  we  knew, 
after  we  had  seen  her  by  the  morning  light,  that 
the  daughter  was  not  beautiful.  Then  there  was 
the  French  girl  at  Algiers.  Jack  had  kept  me 
hanging  on  in  Algiers  a  week  longer  than  we 
meant  to  stay.  The  pose  of  the  head,  the  hands 
clasped  behind  it,  a  trick  so  irritatingly  familiar  to 
me — was  that  the  French  girl  ?  No,  the  lady  I 
was  struggling  to  identify  was  certainly  English. 
I'm  sure  you're  asleep. 

"  A  month  elapsed  before  I  had  an  opportunity 
of  seeing  the  photograph  again.  An  idea  had 
struck  me  which  I  meant  to  carry  out.  This  was 
to  trace  the  photograph  by  means  of  the  photog- 
rapher. I  did  not  like,  however,  to  mention  the 
subject  to  Colonel  Goring  again,  so  I  contrived  to 
find  the  album  while  he  was  out  of  the  smoking- 
room.  The  number  of  the  photograph  and  the 
address  of  the  photographer  were  all  I  wanted ; 
but  just  as  I  had  got  the  photograph  out  of  the 
album  my  host  returned.  I  slipped  the  thing 
quickly  into  my  pocket,  and  he  gave  me  no 
chance  of  replacing  it.  Thus  it  was  owing  to  an 
accident  that  I  carried  the  photograph  away.  My 
theft  rendered  me  no  assistance.  True,  the  pho- 
tographer's name  and  address  were  there ;  but 
when  I  went  to  the  place  mentioned  it  had  dis- 


MY  LADY  NICO TINE.  315 

appeared  to  make  way  for  '  residential  chambers. ' 
I  have  a  few  other  Cambridge  friends  here,  and  I 
showed  some  of  these  the  photograph.  One,  I 
am  now  aware,  is  under  the  impression  that  I  am 
to  be  married  soon,  but  the  others  were  rational. 
Grierson,  of  the  War  Office,  recognized  the  por- 
trait at  once.  '  She  is  playing  small  parts  at  the 
Criterion,'  he  said.  Finchley,  who  is  a  promising 
man  at  the  bar,  also  recognized  her.  '  Her  por- 
traits were  in  all  the  illustrated  papers  five  years 
ago,'  he  told  me,  '  at  the  time  when  she  got  twelve 
months.'  They  contradicted  each  other  about 
her,  however,  and  I  satisfied  myself  that  she 
was  neither  an  actress  at  the  Criterion  nor  the 
adventuress  of  1883.  It  was,  of  course,  con- 
ceivable that  she  was  an  actress,  but  if  so  her 
face  was  not  known  in  the  fancy  stationers' 
windows.  Are  you  listening? 

"I  saw  that  the  mystery  would  remain  un- 
solved until  Jack's  return  home  ;  and  when  I  had  a 
letter  from  him  a  week  ago,  asking  me  to  dine 
with  him  to-night,  I  accepted  eagerly.  He  was 
just  home,  he  said,  and  I  would  meet  an  old 
Cambridge  man.  We  were  to  dine  at  Jack's  club, 
and  I  took  the  photograph  with  me.  I  recog- 
nized Jack  as  soon  as  I  entered  the  waiting-room 
of  the  club.  A  very  short,  very  fat,  smooth-faced 
man  was  sitting  beside  him,  with  his  hands 
clasped  behind  his  head.  I  believe  I  gaped 
'Don't  you  remember  Tom  Rufus,' Jack  asked, 
'  who  used  to  play  the  female  part  at  the  Cam- 
bridge A.  D.  C.  ?  Why,  you  helped  me  to  choose 
his  wig  at  Fox's.  I  have  a  photograph  of  him  in 
costume  somewhere  at  home.  You  might  recall 
him  by  his  trick  of  sitting  with  his  hands  clasped 
behind  his  head.'  I  shook  Rufus's  hand.  I 


3l6  MY  LAD  Y  NICOTINE. 

went  in  to  dinner,  and  probably  behaved  myself. 
Now  that  it  is  over  I  cannot  help  being  thankful 
that  I  did  not  ask  Jack  for  the  name  of  the  lady 
before  I  saw  Rufus.  Good-night.  I  think  I've 
burned  a  hole  in  the  pillow. " 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

ARCADIANS   AT   BAY. 

I  HAVE  said  that  Jimmy  spent  much  of  his  time 
in  contributing  to  various  leading  waste-paper 
baskets,  and  that  of  an  evening  he  was  usually 
to  be  found  prone  on  my  hearth-rug.  When  he 
entered  my  room  he  was  ever  willing  to  tell  us 
what  he  thought  of  editors,  but  his  meerschaum 
with  the  cherry-wood  stem  gradually  drove  all 
passion  from  his  breast,  and  instead  of  upbraid- 
ing more  successful  men  than  himself,  he  then 
lazily  scribbled  letters  to  them  on  my  wall-paper. 
The  wall  to  the  right  of  the  fireplace  was  thick 
with  these  epistles,  which  seemed  to  give  Jimmy 
relief,  though  William  John  had  to  scrape  and 
scrub  at  them  next  morning  with  india-rubber. 
Jimmy's  sarcasm — to  which  that  wall-paper  can 
probably  still  speak — generally  took  this  form  : 

To  G.  BUCKLE,  ESQ.  ,  Columbia  Road,  Shoreditch. 

SIR, — I  am  requested  by  Mr.  James  Moggridge, 
editor  of  the  "  Times,"  to  return  you  the  inclosed 
seven  manuscripts,  and  to  express  his  regret  that 
there  is  at  present  no  vacancy  in  the  sub-editorial 


Aty  LADY  NKOTIN&  3 1 7 

department  of  the  " Times"  such  as  Mr.  Buckle 
kindly  offers  to  fill.     Yours  faithfully, 

P.  R.  (for  J.  Moggridge,  Ed.  "Times"). 

To  MR.  JAMES  KNOWLES,  Brick  Lane,  Spitalfields. 

DEAR  SIR, — I  regret  to  have  to  return  the  in- 
closed paper,  which  is  not  quite  suitable  for  the 
"Nineteenth  Century."  I  find  that  articles  by 
unknown  men,  however  good  in  themselves,  at- 
tract little  attention.  I  inclose  list  of  contributors 
for  next  month,  including,  as  you  will  observe, 
seven  members  of  upper  circles,  and  remain  your 
obedient  servant, 

J.  MOGGRIDGE,  Ed.  "Nineteenth  Century." 

To  MR.  W.  POLLOCK,  Mile-End  Road,  Stepney. 

SIR, — I  have  on  two  previous  occasions  begged 
you  to  cease  sending  daily  articles  to  the  "  Satur- 
day." Should  this  continue  we  shall  be  reluct- 
antly compelled  to  take  proceedings  against  you. 
Why  don't  you  try  the  ' '  Sporting  Times  ?  " 

Yours  faithfully, 
.  J.  MOGGRIDGE,  Ed.    ' '  Saturday  Review. " 

To  Messrs.   SAMPSON,  Low  &  Co.,  Peabody  Build- 
ings, Islington. 

DEAR  SIRS, — The  manuscript  which  you  for- 
warded for  our  consideration  has  received  care- 
ful attention  ;  but  we  do  not  think  it  would  prove 
a  success,  and  it  is  therefore  returned  to  you  here- 
with. We  do  not  care  to  publish  third-rate  books. 
We  remain  yours  obediently, 

J.  MOGGRIDGE  &  Co. ,  (late  Sampson,  Low  &  Co. ). 


318  MY  LADY  NICOTINE. 

To  H.  QUILTER,  ESQ.,  P.  O.  Bethnal  Green. 

SIR,  — I  have  to  return  your  paper  on  Universal 
Art.  It  is  not  without  merit ;  but  I  consider  art 
such  an  important  subject  that  I  mean  to  deal 
with  it  exclusively  myself.  With  thanks  for  kindly 
appreciation  of  my  new  venture,  I  am  yours 
faithfully, 

J.  MOGGRIDGE,  Ed.  "Universal  Review." 

To  JOHN  MORLEY,  ESQ.  ,  Smith  Street,  Blackwall. 

SIR, — Yes,  I  distinctly  remember  meeting  you 
on  the  occasion  to  which  you  refer,  and  it  is  nat- 
uarally  gratifying  to  me  to  hear  that  you  enjoy 
my  writings  so  much.  Unfortunately,  however, 
I  am  unable  to  accept  your  generous  offer  to  do 
Lord  Beaconsfield  for  the  "  English  Men  of  Let- 
ters "  series,  as  the  volume  has  been  already  ar- 
ranged for.  Yours  sincerely, 

J.  MOGGRIDGE, 
Ed.  "  English  Men  of  Letters  "  series. 

To  F.  C.  BURNAND,  ESQ.,  Peebles,  N.  B. 

SIR, — The    jokes    which     you     forwarded    to 
"Punch  "on  Monday  last  are  so  good  that  we 
used  them  three  years  ago.     Yours  faithfully, 
J.  MOGGRIDGE,  Ed.  "Punch.** 

To  Mr.   D'OYLEY  CARTE,    Cross  Stone  Buildings. 
Westminster  Bridge  Road. 

DEAR  SIR, — The  comic  opera  by  your  friends 
Messrs.  Gilbert  and  Sullivan  which  you  have 
submitted  to  me,  as  sole  lessee  and  manager  of 


MY  LADY  NICO TINE.  3 1 9 

the  Savoy  Theater,  is  now  returned  to  you  un- 
read. The  little  piece,  judged  from  its  title-page, 
is  bright  and  pleasing,  but 'I  have  arranged  with 
two  other  gentlemen  to  write  my  operas  for  the 
next  twenty-one  years.  Faithfully  yours, 

J.  MOGGRIKGE, 
Sole  Lessee  and  Manager,  Savoy  Theater. 

To  JAMES   RUSKIN,   ESQ.,    Railway    Station   Hotel, 
Willisden. 

SIR, — I  warn  you  that  I  will  not  accept  any 
more  copies  of  your  books.  I  do  not  know  the 
individual  named  Tennyson  to  whom  you  refer  ; 
but  if  he  is  the  scribbler  who  is  perpetually  send- 
ing me  copies  of  his  verses,  please  tell  him  that  I 
read  no  poetry  except  my  own.  Why  can't  you 
leave  me  alone? 

J.  MOGGRIDGE,  Poet  Laureate. 

These  letters  of  Jimmy's  remind  me  of  our 
famous  competition,  which  took  place  on  the 
night  of  the  Jubilee  celebrations.  When  all  the 
rest  of  London  (including  William  John)  was  in 
the  streets,  the  Arcadians  met  as  usual,  and  Scrym- 
geour,  at  my  request,  put  on  the  shutters  to 
keep  out  the  din.  It  so  happened  that  Jimmy 
and  Gilray  were  that  night  in  wicked  moods,  for 
Jimmy,  who  was  so  anxious  to  be  a  journalist, 
had  just  had  his  seventeenth  article  returned  from 
the  "St.  John's  Gazette,"  and  Gilray  had  been 
"slated"  for  his  acting  of  a  new  part,  in  all  the 
leading  papers.  They  were  now  disgracing  the 
tobacco  they  smoked  by  quarreling  about  whether 
critics  or  editors  were  the  more  disreputable  class, 


320  MY  LADY  NICOTfNE. 

when  in  walked  Pettigrew,  who  had  not  visited 
us  for  months.  Pettigrew  is  as  successful  a  jour- 
nalist as  Jimmy  is  unfortunate,  and  the  paltor  of 
his  face  showed  how  many  Jubilee  articles  he 
had  written  during  the  past  two  months.  Petti- 
grew  offered  each  of  us  a  Splendidad  (his  wife's 
new  brand),  which  we  dropped  into  the  fireplace. 
Then  he  filled  my  little  Remus  with  Arcadia,  and 
sinking  weariedly  into  a  chair,  said  : 

"  My  dear  Jimmy,  the  curse  of  journalism  is 
not  that  editors  won't  accept  our  articles,  but 
that  they  want  too  many  from  us." 

This  seemed  such  monstrous  nonsense  to  Jimmy 
that  he  turned  his  back  on  Pettigrew,  and  Gilray 
broke  in  with  a  diatribe  against  critics. 

"Critics,"  said  Pettigrew,  "are  to  be  pitied 
rather  than  reviled. " 

Then  Gilray  and  Jimmy  had  a  common  foe. 
Whether  it  was  Pettigrew's  appearance  among  us 
or  the  fire-works  outside  that  made  us  unusually 
talkative  that  night  I  cannot  say,  but  we  became 
quite  brilliant,  and  when  Jimmy  began  to  give  us 
his  dream  about  killing  an  editor,  Gilray  said  that 
he  had  a  dream  about  criticising  critics ;  and 
Pettigrew,  not  to  be  outdone,  said  that  he  had  a 
dream  of  what  would  become  of  him  if  he  had  to 
write  any  more  Jubilee  articles.  Then  it  was 
that  Harriot  suggested  a  competition.  "Let 
each  of  the  grumblers,"  he  said,  "describe  his 
dream,  and  the  man  whose  dream  seems  the 
most  exhilarating  will  get  from  the  judges  a  Jubi- 
lee pound-tin  of  the  Arcadia."  The  grumblers 
agreed,  but  each  wanted  the  others  to  dream  first 
At  last  Jimmy  began  as  follows : 


MY  LADY  NICO TINE.  33 1 

CHAPTER  XXVIL 
JIMMY'S  DREAM. 

I  SEE  before  me  (said  Jimmy,  savagely)  a  court, 
where  I,  James  Moggridge,  am  arraigned  on  a 
charge  of  assaulting  the  editor  of  the  "St.  John's 
Gazette,"  so  as  to  cause  death.  Little  interest  is 
manifested  in  the  case.  On  being  arrested  I  had 
pleaded  guilty,  and  up  to  to-day  it  had  been  an- 
ticipated that  the  matter  would  be  settled  out  of 
court.  No  apology,  however,  being  forthcom- 
ing, the  law  has  to  take  its  course.  The  defense 
is  that  the  assault  was  fair  comment  on  a  matter 
of  public  interest,  and  was  warranted  in  sub- 
stance and  in  fact  On  making  his  appearance 
in  the  dock  the  prisoner  is  received  with  slight 
cheering. 

Mr.  John  Jones  is  the  first  witness  called  for 
the  prosecution.  He  says  :  I  am  assistant  editor 
of  the  "St.  John's  Gazette."  It  is  an  evening 
newspaper  of  pronounced  Radical  views.  I 
never  saw  the  prisoner  until  to-day,  but  I  have 
frequently  communicated  with  him.  It  was  part 
of  my  work  to  send  him  back  his  articles.  This 
often  kept  me  late. 

In  cross-examination  the  witness  denies  that 
he  has  ever  sent  the  prisoner  other  people's 
articles  by  mistake.  Pressed,  he  says,  he  may 
have  done  so  once.  The  defendant  generally  in- 
closed letters  with  his  articles,  in  which  he  called 
attention  to  their  special  features.  Sometimes 
these  letters  were  of  a  threatening  nature,  but 
there  was  nothing  unusual  in  that 
31 


322  My  LADY  NICO TINE. 

Cross-examined  :  The  letters  were  not  what 
he  would  call  alarming.  He  had  not  thought  of 
taking  any  special  precautions  himself.  Of 
course,  in  his  position,  he  had  to  take  his  chance. 
So  far  as  he  could  remember,  it  was  not  for  his 
own  sake  that  the  prisoner  wanted  his  articles 
published,  but  in  the  interests  of  the  public.  He, 
the  prisoner,  was  vexed,  he  said,  to  see  the  paper 
full  of  such  inferior  matter.  Witness  had  fre- 
quently seen  letters  to  the  editor  from  other  dis- 
interested contributors  couched  in  similar  lan- 
guage. If  he  was  not  mistaken,  he  saw  a  number 
of  these  gentlemen  in  court.  (Applause  from  the 
persons  referred  to). 

Mr.  Snodgrass  says  :  I  am  a  poet.  I  do  not 
compose  during  the  day.  The  strain  would  be 
too  great.  Every  evening  I  go  out  into  the 
streets  and  buy  the  latest  editions  of  the  evening 
journals.  If  there  is  anything  in  them  worthy 
commemoration  in  verse,  I  compose.  There  is 
generally  something.  I  cannot  say  to  which 
paper  I  send  most  of  my  poems,  as  I  send  to  all. 
One  of  the  weaknesses  of  the  "St.  John's  Gazette" 
is  its  poetry.  It  is  not  worthy  of  the  name.  It 
is  doggerel.  I  have  sought  to  improve  it,  but 
the  editor  rejected  my  contributions.  I  continued 
to  send  them,  hoping  that  they  would  educate  his 
taste.  One  night  I  had  sent  him  a  very  long  poem 
which  did  not  appear  in  the  paper  next  day.  I 
was  very  indignant,  and  went  straight  to  the 
office.  That  was  on  Jubilee-day.  I  was  told 
that  the  editor  had  left  word  that  he  had  just  gone 
into  the  country  for  two  days.  (Hisses. )  I  forced 
my  way  up  the  stairs,  however,  and  when  I 
reached  the  top  I  did  not  know  which  way  to  go. 
There  were  a  number  of  doors  with  "  No  admit- 


MY  LADY  NICO TINE.  3*3 

tance"  printed  on  them.  (More  hissing.)  I 
heard  voices  in  altercation  in  a  room  near  me. 
I  though  that  was  likely  to  be  the  editor's.  I 
opened  the  door  and  went  in.  The  prisoner  was 
in  the  room.  He  had  the  editor  on  the  floor  and 
was  jumping  on  him.  I  said,  "is  that  the  edi- 
tor?" He  said,  "Yes,"  I  said,  "Have  you 
killed  him?"  He  said,  "Yes,"  again.  I  said, 
"  Oh  !  "  and  went  away.  That  is  all  I  remember 
of  the  affair. 

Cross-examined :  It  did  not  occur  to  me  to  in- 
terfere. I  thought  very  little  of  the  affair  at  the 
time.  I  think  I  mentioned  it  to  my  wife  in  the 
evening  ;  but  I  will  not  swear  to  that.  I  am  not 
the  Herr  Bablerr  who  compelled  his  daughter  to 
marry  a  man  she  did  not  love,  so  that  I  might 
write  an  ode  in  celebration  of  the  nuptials.  I 
have  no  daughter.  I  am  a  poet. 

The  foreman  printer  deposes  to  having  had  his 
attention  called  to  the  murder  of  the  editor  about 
three  o'clock.  He  was  very  busy  at  the  time. 
About  an  hour  afterward  he  saw  the  body  and  put 
a  placard  over  it.  He  spoke  of  the  matter  to  the 
assistant  editor,  who  suggested  that  they  had 
better  call  in  the  police.  That  was  done. 

A  clerk  in  the  counting-house  says  :  I  distinctly 
remember  the  afternoon  of  the  murder.  I  can 
recall  it  without  difficulty,  as  it  was  on  the  follow- 
ing evening  that  I  went  to  the  theater — a  rare 
occurrence  with  me.  I  was  running  up  the  stairs 
when  I  met  a  man  coming  down.  I  recognize 
the  prisoner  as  that  man.  He  said,  "I  have 
kilied  your  editor."  I  replied,  "  Then  you  ought 
to  be  ashamed  of  yourself."  We  had  no  further 
conversation. 

J.   O'Leary  is  next  called.     He  says  :  I  am  an 


MY  LAD  Y  NJCO  TINE. 

Irishman  by  birth.  I  had  to  fly  my  country  when 
an  iniquitous  Coercion  Act  was  put  in  force.  At 
present  I  am  a  journalist,  and  I  write  Fenian 
letters  for  the  "St.  John's  Gazette."  I  remember 
the  afternoon  of  the  murder.  It  was  the  sub- 
editor who  told  me  of  it.  He  asked  me  if  I  would 
write  a  "par  "  on  the  subject  for  the  fourth  edition. 
I  did  so  ;  but  as  I  was  in  a  hurry  to  catch  a  train 
it  was  only  a  few  lines.  We  did  him  fuller  justice 
next  day. 

Cross-examined :  witness  denies  that  he  felt 
any  elation  on  hearing  that  a  new  topic  had  been 
supplied  for  writing  on.  He  was  sorry  rather. 

A  policeman  gave  evidence  that  about  half-past 
four  on  Jubilee-day  he  saw  a  small  crowd  gather 
round  the  entrance  to  the  offices  of  the  "St. 
John's  Gazette."  He  thought  it  his  duty  to 
inquire  into  the  matter.  He  went  inside  and 
asked  an  office-boy  what  was  up.  The  boy  said 
he  thought  the  editor  had  been  murdered,  but 
advised  him  to  inquire  upstairs.  He  did  so,  and 
the  boy's  assertion  was  confirmed.  He  came 
down  again  and  told  the  crowd  that  it  was  the 
editor  who  had  been  killed.  The  crowd  then 
dispersed. 

A  detective  from  Scotland  Yard  explains  the 
method  of  the  prisoner's  capture.  Moggridgo 
wrote  to  the  superintendent  saying  that  he  would 
be  passing  Scotland  Yard  on  the  following  Wed- 
nesday on  business.  Three  detectives,  including 
witness,  were  told  off  to  arrest  him,  and  they 
succeeded  in  doing  so.  (Loud  and  prolongad  ap- 
plause.^ 

The  judge  interposes  here.  He  fails,  he  says, 
to  see  that  this  evidence  is  relevant.  So  far  as  he 
can  see,  the  question  is  not  whether  a  murder  has 


MY  LADY  NICOTWM. 


325 


been  committed,  but  whether,  under  the  circum- 
stances, it  is  a  criminal  offense.  The  prisoner 
should  never  have  been  tried  here  at  all.  It  was 
a  case  for  the  petty  sessions.  If  the  counsel  can- 
not give  some  weighty  reason  for  proceeding 
with  further  evidence,  he  will  now  put  it  to  the 

jury- 
After  a  few  remarks  from  the  counsel  for  the 
prosecution  and  the  counsel  for  the  defense,  who 
calls  attention  to  the  prisoner's  high  and  unblem- 
ished character,  the  judge  sums  up.  It  is  for  the 
jury,  he  says,  to  decide  whether  the  prisoner  has 
committed  a  criminal  offense.  That  was  the 
point ;  and  in  deciding  it  the  jury  should  bear  in 
mind  the  desirability  of  suppressing  merely  vexa- 
tious cases.  People  should  not  go  to  law  over 
trifles.  Still,  the  jury  must  remember  that,  with- 
out exception,  all  human  life  was  sacred.  After 
some  further  remarks  from  the  judge,  the  jury 
(who  deliberate  for  rather  more  than  three-quarters 
of  an  hour)  return  a  verdict  of  guilty.  The  pris- 
oner is  sentenced  to  a  fine  of  five  florins,  or  three 
days'  imprisonment 


CHAPTER  XXVHi 

GILRAY'S  DREAM. 

me  (said  Gilray,  with  glowing  face) 
invited  to  write  a  criticism  of  the  Critics'  Dra- 
matic Society  for  the  "  Standard.  "  I  select  th« 
"Standard,"  because  that  paper  has  treated  me 
most  cruelly.  However,  I  loathe  them  all.  My 
dream  in  the  following  criticism  : 


326  MY  LADY  NICOTINM. 

What  ia  the  Critics'  Dramatic  Society?  W« 
found  out  on  Wednesday  afternooon,  and,  as  we 
went  to  Drury  Lane  in  the  interests  of  the  public, 
it  is  only  fair  that  the  public  should  know  too. 
Besides,  in  that  case  we  can  all  bear  it  together. 
Be  it  known,  then,  that  this  Dramatic  Society  is 
composed  of  "critics"  who  gave  "The  School 
for  Scandal "  at  a  matinee  on  Wednesday  just  to 
show  how  the  piece  should  be  played.  Mr. 
Augustus  Harris  had  "kindly  put  the  theater  at 
their  disposal,"  for  which  he  will  have  to  answer 
when  he  joins  Sheridan  in  the  Elysian  Fields. 
As  the  performance  was  by  far  the  worst  ever 
perpetrated,  it  would  be  a  shame  to  deprive  the 
twentieth  century  of  the  programme.  Some  of 
the  players,  as  will  be  seen,  are  too  well  known 
to  escape  obloquy.  The  others  may  yet  be  abl« 
to  sink  into  oblivion. 

Sir  Peter  Teazle MR.  JOHN  RUSKIN. 

Joseph  Surface MR.  W.  E.  HENLEY. 

Charles  Surface MR.  HARRY  LABOUCHERE. 

Crabtree MR.  W.  ARCHER. 

Sir  Benjamin  Backbite MR.  CLEMENT  SCOTT. 

Moses MR.  WALTER  SICHEL. 

Old  Rowley MR.  JOSEPH  KNIGHT, 

Sir  Oliver MR.  W.  H.  POLLOCK. 

Trip MR.  G.  A.  SALA. 

Snake MR.  MOY  THOMAS. 

Sir  Harry  Bumper  (with  song) MR.  GEORGE  MOORE. 

Servants,  Guests,  etc.,  MESSRS.  SAVILLE  CLARKE,  JOSKPH 

HATTON,  PERCY  FITZGERALD,  etc. 

Assisted  by, 

Lady  Teazle Miss  ROSIE  LE  DKNK. 

Mrs.  Candour Miss  JENNY  MONTALBAN. 

Lady  Sneerwell Miss  ROSALIND  LABELLK. 

(The  Hon.  Mrs.  Major  TURNLEY). 
Maria...., Miss  JONES. 

It  was  a  sin  of  omission  on  the  part  of  the 


UY  LADY  NICOTINE, 


3*7 


Critics'  Dramatic  Society  not  to  state  that  the 
piece  played  was  "a  new  and  original  comedy" 
in  many  acts.  Had  they  had  the  courage  to  do 
this,  and  to  change  the  title,  no  one  would  even 
have  known.  On  the  other  hand,  it  was  a  sin  of 
commission  to  allow  that  Professor  Henry  Morley 
was  responsible  for  the  stage  management ;  Mr. 
Morley  being  a  man  of  letters  whom  some  worthy 
people  respect.  But  perhaps  sins  of  omission 
-ind  commission  counterbalance.  The  audience 
was  put  in  a  bad  humor  before  the  performance 
began,  owing  to  the  curtain's  rising  fifteen  min- 
utes late.  However,  once  the  curtain  did  rise,  it 
was  an  unconscionable  time  in  falling.  What  is 
known  as  the  "business"  of  the  first  act,  includ- 
ing the  caterwauling  of  Sir  Benjamin  Backbite 
and  Crabtree  in  their  revolutions  round  Joseph, 
was  gone  through  with  a  deliberation  that  was 
cruelty  to  the  audience,  and  just  when  the  act 
seemed  over  at  last  these  indefatigable  amateurs 
began  to  dance  a  minuet.  A  sigh  ran  round  the 
theater  at  this — a  sigh  as  full  of  suffering  as  when 
a  minister,  having  finished  his  thirdly  and  lastly, 
starts  off  again,  with,  "I  cannot  allow  this  op- 
portunity to  pass."  Possibly  the  Critics'  Dramatic 
Society  are  congratulating  themselves  on  the  un- 
deniable fact  that  the  sighs  and  hisses  grew  beauti- 
fully less  as  the  performance  proceeded.  But 
that  was  because  the  audience  diminished  too. 
One  man  cannot  be  expected  to  sigh  like  twenty  ; 
though,  indeed,  some  of  the  audience  of  Wednes- 
day sighed  like  at  least  half  a  dozen. 

If  it  be  true  that  all  men — even  critics — have 
their  redeeming  points  and  failings,  then  was 
there  no  Charles  and  no  Joseph  Surface  at  this 
unique  matinee.  For  the  ungainly  gentleman 


3*8  my  LAD  y  NICOTINE. 

who  essayed  tne  part  of  Charles  mad«,  or  rather 
meant  to  make,  him  spotless  ;  and  Mr.  Henley'* 
Joseph  was  twin-brother  to  Mr.  Irving's  Mephis- 
topheles.  Perhaps  the  idea  of  Mr.  Labouchere 
and  his  friend,  Mr.  Henley,  was  that  they  would 
make  one  young  man  between  them.  They 
"ound  it  hard  work.  Mr.  Labouchere  has  yet  to 
learn  that  buffoonery  is  not  exactly  wit,  and  that 
Charles  Surfaces  who  dig  their  uncle  Olivers  in 
the  libs,  and  then  turn  to  the  audience  for  ap- 
plause, are  among  the  things  that  the  nineteenth 
century  can  do  without.  According  to  the  pro- 
gramme, Mr.  George  Moore — the  Sir  Harry  Bum- 
per— was  to  sing  the  song,  "  Here's  to  the  Maiden 
of  Bashful  Fifteen."  Mr.  Moore  did  not  sing  it, 
but  Mr.  Labouchere  did.  The  explanation  of 
'his,  we  understand,  was  not  that  Sir  Harry's 
heart  failed  him  at  the  eleventh  hour,  but  that  Mr 
Labouchere  threatened  to  fling  up  his  part  unless 
the  song  was  given  to  him.  However,  Mr. 
Moore  heard  Mr.  Labouchere  singing  the  song, 
and  that  was  revenge  enough  for  any  man.  To 
Mr.  Henley  the  part  of  Joseph  evidently  presented 
no  serious  difficulties.  In  his  opinion,  Joseph  is 
a  whining  hypocrite  who  rolls  his  eyes  when  he 
wishes  to  look  natural.  Obviously  he  is  a  slavish 
admirer  of  Mr.  Irving.  If  Joseph  had  taken  his 
snuff  as  this  one  does,  Lady  Sneerwell  would 
have  sent  him  to  the  kitchen.  If  he  had  made 
love  to  Lady  Teazle  as  this  one  does,  she  would 
have  suspected  him  of  weak  intellect.  Sheri- 
dan's Joseph  was  a  man  of  culture  :  Mr.  Henley's 
is  a  buffoon.  It  is  not,  perhaps,  so  much  this 
gentleman's  fault  as  his  misfortune  that  his  acting 
is  without  either  art  or  craft ;  but  then  he  was 
not  compelled  to  play  Joseph  Surfac*.  Indeed, 


A/7  LAD  Y  NTCO  TIME.  3 19 

w«  may  go  further,  and  say  that  if  he  !•  a  man 
with  friends  he  must  have  been  dissuaded  from  it. 
The  Sir  Peter  Teazle  of  Mr.  Ruskin  reminded  us 
of  other  Sir  Peter  Teazles — probably  because  Sir 
Peter  is  played  nowadays  with  his  courtliness 
omitted. 

Mr.  William  Archer  was  the  Crabtree,  or  rather 
Mr.  Archer  and  the  prompter  between  them. 
Until  we  caught  sight  of  the  prompter  we  had 
credited  Mr.  Archer  with  being  a  ventriloquist 
given  to  casting  his  voice  to  the  wings.  Mr. 
Clement  Scott — the  Sir  Benjamin  Backbite — was 
a  ventriloquist,  too,  but  not  in  such  a  large  way 
as  Mr.  Archer.  His  voice,  so  far  as  we  could 
make  out  from  an  occasional  rumble,  was  in  his 
boots,  where  his  courage  kept  it  company. 
There  was  no  more  ambitious  actor  in  the  cast 
than  Mr.  Pollock.  Mr.  Pollock  was  Sir  Oliver, 
and  he  gave  a  highly  original  reading  of  that  old 
gentleman.  What  Mr.  Pollock's  private  opinion 
of  the  character  of  Sir  Oliver  may  be  we  cannot 
say  ;  it  would  be  worth  an  interviewer's  while  to 
find  out.  But  if  he  thinks  Sir  Oliver  was  a  wind- 
mill, we  can  inform  him  at  once  that  he  is  mis- 
taken. Of  Mr.  Sichel's  Moses  all  that  occurs  to 
us  to  say  is  that  when  he  let  his  left  arm  hang 
down  and  raised  the  other  aloft,  he  looked  very 
like  a  tea-pot.  Mr.  Joseph  Knight  was  old  Row- 
ley. In  that  character  all  we  saw  of  him  was  his 
back ;  and  we  are  bound  to  admit  that  it  was  un- 
exceptional. Sheridan  calls  one  of  his  servants 
Snake  and  the  other  Trip.  Mr.  Moy  Thomas  tried 
to  look  as  like  a  snake  as  he  could,  and  with  some 
success.  The  Trip  of  Mr.  Sala,  however,  was  a 
little  heavy,  and  when  he  came  between  the  audi- 
ence and  the  other  actors  there  was  a  temporary 


330  MY  LAD  Y  NICOTINE. 

eclipse.  As  for  the  minor  parts,  the  gentleman 
who  personated  them  gave  a  capital  rendering  of 
supers  suffering  from  stage  fever.  Wednesday  is 
memorable  in  the  history  of  the  stage,  but  we 
would  forget  it  if  we  could. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

PETTIGREW'S    DREAM. 

MY  dream  (said  Pettigrew)  contrasts  sadly  with 
those  of  my  young  friends.  They  dream  of  re- 
venge, but  my  dream  is  tragic.  I  see  my  editor 
writing  my  obituary  notice.  This  is  how  it 
reads : 

Mr.  Pettigrew,  M,  A.,  whose  sad  death  is  re- 
corded in  another  column,  was  in  his  forty-second 
year  (not  his  forty-fourth,  as  stated  in  the  evening 
papers),  and  had  done  a  good  deal  of  Jubilee 
work  before  he  accepted  the  commission  that  led 
to  his  death.  It  is  an  open  secret  that  he  wrote 
seventy  of  the  Jubilee  sketches  which  have  ap- 
peared in  this  paper.  The  pamphlet  now  selling 
in  the  streets  for  a  penny,  entitled  "Jubilees  of 
the  Past,"  was  his.  He  wrote  the  introductory 
chapter  to  "Fifty  Years  of  Progress,"  and  his 
"Jubilee  Statesmen  "  is  now  in  a  second  edition. 
The  idea  of  a  collection  of  Jubilee  odes  was  not 
his,  but  the  publisher's.  At  the  same  time,  his 
friends  and  relatives  attach  no  blame  to  them. 
Mr.  Pettigrew  shivered  when  the  order  was  given 
to  him,  but  he  accepted  it,  and  the  general  impres- 
sion among  those  who  knew  him  was  that  a  man 
who  had  survived  "Jubilee  Statesmen"  could  do 


MY  LADY  NICOTINE. 


33* 


anything.     As  it  turns  out,  we  had  overestimated 
Mr.  Pettigrew's  powers  of  endurance. 

As  "The  Jubilee  Odes"  will  doubtless  yet  be 
collected  by  another  hand,  little  need  be  said  here 
of  the  work.  Mr.  Pettigrew  was  to  make  his  col- 
lection as  complete  as  the  limited  space  at  his 
disposal  (two  volumes)  would  allow  ;  the  only 
original  writing  in  the  book  being  a  sketch  of  the 
various  schemes  suggested  for  the  celebration  of 
the  Jubilee.  It  was  .this  sketch  that  killed  him.  On 
the  morning  of  the  2yth,  when  he  intended  begin- 
ning it,  he  rose  at  an  unusually  early  hour,  and  was 
seen  from  the  windows  of  the  house  pacing  the 
garden  in  an  apparently  agitated  state  of  mind. 
He  eat  no  breakfast  One  of  his  daughters  states 
that  she  noticed  a  wild  look  in  his  eyes  during 
the  morning  meal ;  but,  as  she  did  not  remark  on 
it  at  the  time,  much  stress  need  not  be  laid  on 
this.  The  others  say  that  he  was  unusually  quiet 
and  silent.  All,  however,  noticed  one  thing. 
Generally,  when  he  had  literary  work  to  do,  he 
was  anxious  to  begin  upon  his  labors,  and  spent 
little  time  at  the  breakfast-table.  On  this  occasion 
he  sat  on.  Even  after  the  breakfast  things  were 
removed  he  seemed  reluctant  to  adjourn  to  the 
study.  His  wife  asked  him  several  times  if  he 
meant  to  begin  "The  Jubilee  Odes"  that  day, 
and  he  always  replied  in  the  affirmative.  But  he 
talked  nervously  of  other  things ;  and  to  her  sur- 
prise— though  she  thought  comparatively  little 
of  it  at  the  time — drew  her  on  to  a  discussion  on 
summer  bonnets.  As  a  rule,  this  was  a  subject 
which  he  shunned.  At  last  he  rose,  and,  going 
slowly  to  the  window,  looked  out  for  a  quarter  of 
an  hour.  His  wife  asked  him  again  about  "  The 
Jubilee  Odes,"  and  he  replied  that  he  meant  to 


33*  MT  LAD  Y  NICOTINE. 

begim  directly.  Th«n  he  went  round  th»  morn- 
ing-room, looking  at  the  pictures  on  the  walls  as  if 
for  the  first  time.  After  that  he  leaned  for  a  little 
whil«  against  th«  mantelpiece,  and  then,  as  if  an 
idea  had  struck  him,  began  to  wind  up  the  clock. 
He  went  through  the  house  winding  up  the  clocks, 
though  this  duty  was  usually  left  to  a  servant  ; 
and  when  that  was  over  he  came  back  to  the 
breakfast-room  and  talked  about  Waterbury 
watches.  His  wife  had  to  gotto  the  kitchen,  and 
he  followed  her.  On  their  way  back  they  passed 
the  nursery,  and  he  said  he  thought  he  would  go 
in  and  talk  to  the  nurse.  This  was  very  unlike 
him.  At  last  his  wife  said  that  it  would  soon  be 
luncheon  time,  and  then  he  went  to  the  study. 
Some  ten  minutes  afterward  he  wandered  into 
the  dining-room,  where  she  was  arranging  some 
flowers.  He  seemed  taken  aback  at  seeing  her, 
but  said,  after  a  moment's  thought,  that  the  study 
door  was  locked  and  he  could  not  find  the  key. 
This  astonished  her,  as  she  had  dusted  the  room 
herself  that  morning.  She  went  to  see  and  found 
the  study  door  standing  open.  When  she  re- 
turned to  the  dining-room  he  had  disappeared. 
They  searched  for  him  everywhere,  and  event- 
ually discovered  him  in  the  drawing-room,  turn- 
ing over  a  photograph  album.  He,  then  went 
back  to  the  study.  His  wife  accompanied  him, 
and,  as  was  her  custom,  filled  his  pipe  for  him. 
He  smoked  a  mixture  to  which  he  was  passion- 
ately attached.  He  lighted  his  pipe  several  times, 
but  it  always  went  out.  His  wife  put  a  new  nib 
into  his  pen,  placed  some  writing  material  on 
the  table,  and  then  retired,  shutting  the  door 
behind  her. 

About  half  an  hour  afterward  Mrs.  Pettigrew 


HfY  LADY  NICOTINK, 


333 


aent  «ne  of  th«  children  to  the  study  on  a  trifling- 
•rrand.  As  hs  did  not  return  she  followed  him. 
She  found  him  sitting  on  his  fathers  knee,  where 
she  did  not  remember  ever  having  seen  him  be- 
fore. Mr.  Pettigrew  was  holding  his  watch  to 
the  boy's  ears.  The  study  table  was  littered  with 
several  hundreds  of  Jubilee  odes.  Other  odes 
had  slipped  to  the  floor.  Mrs.  Pettigrew  asked 
how  he  was  getting  on,  and  her  unhappy  hus- 
band replied  that  he  was  just  going  to  begin. 
His  hands  were  trembling,  and  he  had  given  up 
trying  to  smoke.  He  sought  to  detain  her  by 
talking  about  the  boy's  curls ;  but  she  went  away, 
taking  the  child  with  her.  As  she  closed  the 
door  he  groaned  heavily,  and  she  reopened  it  to 
ask  if  he  felt  unwell.  He  answered  in  the  nega- 
tive, and  she  left  him.  The  last  person  to  see 
Mr.  Pettigrew  alive  was  Eliza  Day,  the  house- 
maid. She  took  a  letter  to  him  between  twelve 
and  one  o'clock.  Usually  he  disliked  being  dis- 
turbed at  his  writing  ;  but  this  time,  in  answer  to 
her  knock,  he  cried  eagerly,  "Come  in  !  "  When 
she  entered  he  insisted  on  her  taking  a  chair,  and 
asked  her  how  all  her  people  were,  and  if  there 
was  anything  he  could  do  for  them.  Several 
times  she  rose  to  leave,  but  he  would  not  allow 
her  to  do  so.  Eliza  mentioned  this  in  the  kitchen 
when  she  returned  to  it.  Her  master  was  natu- 
rally a  reserved  man  who  seldom  spoke  to  his 
servants,  which  rendered  his  behavior  on  this 
occasion  the  more  remarkable. 

As  announced  in  the  evening  papers  yesterday, 
the  servant  sent  to  the  study  at  half-past  one  to 
see  why  Mr.  Pettigrew  was  not  coming  to  lunch, 
found  him  lifeless  on  the  floor.  The  knife  clutched 
in  his  hand  showed  that  he  had  done  the  fatal 


334  *W  LADY  NICOTINE. 

deed  himself ;  and  Dr.  Southwick,  of  Hyde  Park, 
who  was  on  the  spot  within  ten  minutes  of  the 
painful  discovery,  is  of  opinion  that  life  had  been 
extinct  for  about  half  an  hour.  The  body  was 
lying  among  Jubilee  odes.  On  the  table  were  a 
dozen  or  more  sheets  of  "  copy,"  which,  though 
only  spoiled  pages,  showed  that  the  deceased  had 
not  succumbed  without  a  struggle.  On  one  he 
had  begun,  "Fifty  years  have  come  and  gone 
since  a  fair  English  maiden  ascended  the  throne 
of  England."  Another  stopped  short  at,  "To 
every  loyal  Englishman  the  Jubil — — "  A  third 
sheet  commenced  with,  ' '  Though  there  have  been 
a  number  of  royal  Jubilees  in  the  history  of  the 
world,  probably  none  has  awakened  the  same 

interest  as "  and  a  fourth  began,   "  1887  will  be 

known  to  all  future  ages  as  the  year  of  Jub " 

One  sheet  bore  the  sentence,  "  Heaven  help 
me  !  "  and  it  is  believed  that  these  were  the  last 
words  the  deceased  ever  penned. 

Mr.  Pettigrew  was  a  most  estimable  man  in 
private  life,  and  will  be  greatly  missed  in  the 
circles  to  which  he  had  endeared  himself.  He 
leaves  a  widow  and  a  small  family.  It  may  be 
worth  adding  that  when  discovered  dead  there 
was  a  smile  upon  his  face,  as  if  he  had  at  last 
found  peace.  He  must  have  suffered  great  agony 
that  forenoon,  and  his  death  is  best  looked  upon 
as  a  happy  release. 

Harriot,  Scrymgeour  and  I  awarded  the  tin  of 
Arcadia  to  Pettigrew,  because  he  alone  of  the 
competitors  seemed  to  believe  that  his  dream 
might  be  realized. 


J/y  LAD*  NICOTItf*.  XS 

CHAPTER  XXX. 

THE   MURDER   IN  TH«  INN. 

SOMETIMES  I  think  it  is  all  a  dream,  and  that  I 
did  not  really  murder  the  waits.  Perhaps  they 
are  living  still.  Yet  the  scene  is  very  vivid  before 
me,  though  the  affair  took  place — if  it  ever  did 
take  place — so  long  ago  that  I  cannot  be  ex- 
pected to  remember  the  details.  The  time  when 
I  must  give  up  smoking  was  drawing  near,  so 
that  I  may  have  been  unusually  irritable,  and  de- 
termined, whatever  the  cost,  to  smoke  my  last 
pound  tin  of  the  Arcadia  in  peace.  I  think  my 
brier  was  in  my  mouth  when  I  did  it,  but  after 
the  lapse  of  months  I  cannot  say  whether  there 
were  three  of  them  or  only  two.  So  far  as  I  can 
remember,  I  took  the  man  with  the  beard  first. 

The  incident  would  have  made  more  impres- 
sion on  me  had  there  been  any  talk  about  it  So 
far  as  I  could  discover,  it  never  got  into  the 
papers.  The  porters  did  not  seem  to  think  it  any 
affair  of  theirs,  though  one  of  them  must  have 
guessed  why  I  invited  the  waits  upstairs.  He 
saw  me  open  the  door  to  them  ;  he  was  aware 
that  this  was  their  third  visit  in  a  week  ;  and  only 
the  night  before  he  had  heard  me  shout  a  warning 
to  them  from  my  inn  window.  But  of  course  the 
porters  must  allow  themselves  a  certain  discretion 
in  the  performance  of  their  duties.  Then  there 
was  the  pleasant  gentleman  of  the  next  door  but 
two,  who  ran  against  me  just  as  I  was  toppling 
the  second  body  over  the  railing.  We  were  not 
acquainted,  but  I  knew  him  as  the  man  who  had 


MY  LAD  Y  NICOTINM. 

flung  a  water-jug  at  the  waits  the  night  before. 
He  stopped  short  when  he  saw  the  body  (it  had 
rolled  out  of  the  sofa-rug),  and  looked  at  me  sus- 
piciously. "He  is  one  of  the  waits,"  I  said.  "  I 
beg  your  pardon,"  he  replied,  "I  did  not  under- 
stand." When  he  had  passed  a  few  yaras  he 
turned  round.  "Better  cover  him  up, "  he  said; 
"our  people  will  talk."  Then  he  strolled  away, 
an  air  from  "The  Grand  Duchess"  lightly  trol- 
ling from  his  lips.  We  still  meet  occasionally, 
and  nod  if  no  one  is  looking. 

"I  am  going  too  fast,  however.  What  I  meant 
to  say  was  that  the  murder  was  premeditated.  In 
the  case  of  a  reprehensible  murder  I  know  this 
would  be  considered  an  aggravation  of  the  offense. 
Of  course,  it  is  an  open  question  whether  all  mur- 
ders are  not  reprehensible  ;  but  let  that  pass.  To 
my  own  mind  I  should  have  been  indeed  deserving 
of  punishment  had  I  rushed  out  and  slain  the 
waits  in  a  moment  of  fury.  If  one  were  to  give 
way  to  his  passion  every  time  he  is  interrupted  in 
his  work  or  his  sleep  by  bawlers  our  thoroughfares 
would  soon  be  choked  with  the  dead.  No  one 
values  human  life  or  understands  its  sacredness 
more  than  I  do.  I  merely  say  that  there  may  be 
times  when  a  man,  having  stood  a  great  deal  and 
thought  it  over  calmly,  is  justified  in  taking  the 
law  into  his  own  hands — always  supposing  he 
can  do  it  decently,  quietly,  and  without  scandal. 
The  epidemic  of  waits  broke  out  early  in  Decem- 
ber, and  every  other  night  or  so  these  torments 
came  in  the  still  hours  and  burst  into  song  beneath 
my  windows.  They  made  me  nervous.  I  was 
more  wretched  on  the  nights  they  did  not  come 
than  on  the  nights  they  came ;  for  I  had  begun  to 
listen  for  them,  and  was  never  sure  they  had  gone 


MY  LADY  WCOTUfM.  jjy 

into  another  locality  before  four  o'clock  in  the 
morning:.  As  for  their  songs,  they  were  more  like 
music-hall  ditties  than  Christmas  carols.  So  one 
morning— it  was,  I  think,  the  23d  of  December— 
I  warned  them  fairly,  fully,  and  with  particulars, 
of  what  would  happen  if  they  disturbed  me  again. 
Having  given  them  this  warning,  can  it  be  said 
that  I  was  to  blame — at  least,  to  any  considerable 
extent  ? 

Christmas-eve  had  worn  into  Christmas  morn- 
ing before  the  waits  arrived  on  that  fateful  occa- 
sion. I  opened  the  window — if  my  memory  does 
not  deceive  me — at  once,  and  looked  down  at 
them.  I  could  not  swear  to  their  being  the  persons 
whom  I  had  warned  the  night  before.  Perhaps  I 
should  have  made  sure  of  this.  But  in  any  case 
these  were  practiced  waits.  Their  whine  rushed 
in  at  my  open  window  with  a  vigor  that  proved 
them  no  tyros.  Besides,  the  night  was  a  cold 
one,  and  I  could  not  linger  at  an  open  casement 

I  nodded  pleasantly  to  the  waits  and  pointed 
to  my  door.  Then  Iran  downstairs  and  let  them 
in.  They  came  up  to  my  chambers  with  me.  As 
I  have  said,  the  lapse  of  time  prevents  my  re- 
membering how  many  of  them  there  were ;  three, 
I  fancy.  At  all  events,  I  took  them  into  my  bed- 
room and  strangled  them  one  by  one.  They  went 
off  quite  peaceably  ;  the  only  difficulty  was  in  the 
disposal  of  the  bodies.  I  thought  of  laying  them 
on  +.he  curb-stone  in  different  passages  ;  but  I  was 
afraid  the  police  might  not  see  that  they  were  waits, 
in  which  case  I  might  be  put  to  inconvenience.  So 
I  took  a  spade  and  dug  two  (or  three)  large  holes 
in  the  quadrangle  of  the  inn.  Then  I  carried  the 
bodies  to  the  place  in  my  rug,  one  at  a  time, 
•hoved  them  in  and  covered  them  up.  A  close 
II 


33*  MY  LADY  NICO TINE. 

observer  might  have  noticed  in  that  part  of  tht 
quadrangle,  for  some  time  after,  a  small  mound, 
such  as  might  be  made  by  an  elbow  under  the 
bedclothes.  Nobody,  however,  seems  to  have 
descried  it,  and  yet  I  see  it  often  ev«n  now  in  my 
dreams. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

THE  PERILS  OF  NOT  SMOKING. 

WHEN  the  Arcadians  heard  that  I  had  signed  an 
agreement  to  give  up  smoking  they  were  first  in- 
credulous, then  sarcastic,  then  angry.  Instead  of 
coming,  as  usual,  to  my  room,  they  went  one 
night  in  a  body  to  Pettigrew's,  and  there,  as  I 
afterward  discovered,  a  scheme  for  "saving  me" 
was  drawn  up.  So  little  did  they  understand  the 
firmness  of  my  character,  that  they  thought  I  had 
weakly  yielded  to  the  threats  of  the  lady  referred 
to  in  my  first  chapter,  when,  of  course,  I  had 
only  yielded  to  her  arguments,  and  they  agreed 
to  make  an  appeal  on  my  behalf  to  her.  Petti- 
grew,  as  a  married  man  himself,  was  appointed 
intercessor,  and  I  understand  that  the  others  not 
only  accompanied  him  to  her  door,  but  waited  in 
an  alley  until  he  came  out.  I  never  knew  whether 
the  reasoning  brought  to  bear  on  the  lady  was  of 
Pettigrew's  devising,  or  suggested  by  Jimmy  and 
the  others,  but  it  was  certainly  unselfish  of  Petti- 
grew  to  lie  so  freely  on  my  account.  At  the  time, 
however,  the  plot  enraged  me,  for  the  lady  con- 
ceived the  absurd  idea  that  I  had  sent  Pettigrew 
to  her.  Undoubtedly  it  was  a  bold  stroke.  Petti- 
grew'*  scheme  was  to  play  upon  his  hostess'* 


J*r  LAD  v  NICO  TINS. 

attachment  for  me  by  hinting  to  her  that  if  I  gave 
up  smoking  I  would  probably  die.  Finding  her 
attentive  rather  than  talkative,  he  soon  dared  to 
assure  her  that  he  himself  loathed  tobacco  and 
only  took  it  for  his  health. 

"By  the  doctor's  orders,  mark  you,"  he  said, 
impressively;  *' Doctor  Southwick,  of  Hyde 
Park." 

She  expressed  polite  surprise  at  this,  and  then 
Pettigrew,  believing  he  had  made  an  impression, 
told  his  story  as  concocted. 

"My  own  case,"  he  said,  "is  one  much  in 
point.  I  suffered  lately  from  sore  throat,  accom- 
panied by  depression  of  spirits  and  loss  of  appe- 
tite. The  ailment  was  so  unusual  with  me  that  I 
thought  it  prudent  to  put  myself  in  Doctor  South- 
wick's  hands.  As  far  as  possible  I  shall  give  you 
his  exact  words ! 

"  'When  did  you  give  up  smoking?*  he  asked, 
abruptly,  after  examining  my  throat 

"  'Three  months  ago,'  I  replied,  taken  by  sur- 
prise ;  '  but  how  did  you  know  I  had  given  it  up  ? ' 

"  '  Never  mind  how  I  know,'  he  said,  severely ; 
'  I  told  you  that,  however  much  you  might  desire 
to  do  so,  you  were  not  to  take  to  not  smoking. 
This  is  how  you  carry  out  my  directions.' 

"  '  Well/  I  answered,  sulkily,  '  I  have  been  feel- 
ing so  healthy  for  the  last  two  years  that  I  thought 
I  could  indulge  myself  a  little.  You  are  aware 
how  I  abominate  tobacco.' 

"'Quite  so,1  he  said,  'and  now  you  see  the 
result  of  this  miserable  self-indulgence.  Two 
years  ago  I  prescribed  tobacco  for  you,  to  be 
taken  three  times  a  day,  and  you  yourself  admit 
that  it  made  a  new  man  of  you.  Instead  of  feel- 
ing thankful,  you  complain  of  the  brief  unplea* 


34* 

antness  that  accompanies  its  consumption,  and 
now,  in  the  teeth  of  my  instructions,  you  give  it 
up.  I  must  say  the  ways  of  patients  are  a  con- 
stant marvel  to  me. ' 

"  'But  how,'  I  asked,  'do  you  know  that  my 
reverting  to  the  pleasant  habit  of  not  smoking  is 
the  cause  of  my  present  ailment?' 

' ' '  Oh  J '  he  said,  '  you  are  not  sure  of  that  your- 
self, are  you  ? " 

" '  I  thought,'  I  replied,  '  there  might  be  a  doubt 
about  it ;  though  of  course  I  have  not  forgotten 
what  you  told  me  two  years  ago.' 

"  '  It  matters  very  little,'  he  said,  '  whether  you 
remember  what  I  tell  you  if  you  do  not  follow  my 
orders.  But  as  for  knowing  that  indulgence  in 
not  smoking  is  what  has  brought  you  to  this  state, 
how  long  is  it  since  you  noticed  these  symptoms  ? ' 

"'I  can  hardly  say,'  I  answered.  'Still,  I 
should  be  able  to  think  back.  I  had  my  first  sore 
throat  this  year  the  night  I  saw  Mr.  Irving  at  the 
Lyceum,  and  that  was  on  my  wife's  birthday,  the 
3d  of  October.  How  long  ago  is  that? ' 

"  'Why,  that  is  more  than  three  months  ago. 
Are  you  sure  of  the  date  ? ' 

"'Quite  certain,'  I  told  him;  'so,  you  see,  I 
had  my  first  sore  throat  before  I  risked  not  smok- 
ing again. ' 

"  'I  don't  understand  this,'  he  said.  ' Do  you 
mean  to  say  that  in  the  beginning  of  May  you 
were  taking  my  prescription  daily  ?  You  were 
not  missing  a  day  now  and  then — forgetting 
to  order  a  new  stock  of  cigars  when  the  others 
were  done,  or  flinging  them  away  before  they 
were  half  smoked?  Patients  do  such  things.' 

'"No,  I  assure  you  I  compelled  myself  to 
•moke.  At  least——' 


Mr  LAD  Y  NlCOttf*.  34* 

"  'At  least  what?  Come,  now,  if  I  am  to  b« 
of  any  service  to  you,  there  must  be  no  reserve.' 

"  'Well,  now  that  I  think  of  it,  I  was  only 
smoking  one  cigar  a  day  at  that  time.' 

"  'Ah  !  we  have  it  now/  he  cried.  'One  cigar 
a  day,  when  I  ordered  you  three  I  I  might  have 
guessed  as  much.  When  I  tell  non-smokers  that 
they  must  smoke  or  I  will  not  be  answerable  for 
the  consequences,  they  entreat  me  to  let  them 
break  themselves  of  the  habit  of  not  smoking 
gradually.  One  cigarette  a  day  to  begin  with, 
they  beg  of  me,  promising  to  increase  the  dose 
by  degrees.  Why,  man,  one  cigarette  a  day  is 
poison  ;  it  is  worse  than  not  smoking.' 

"  ' But  that  is  not  what  I  did.' 

"'The  idea  is  the  same,'  he  said.  'Like  the 
others,  you  make  all  this  moan  about  giving  up 
completely  a  habit  you  should  never  have  acquired. 
For  my  own  part,  I  cannot  even  understand  wher« 
the  subtle  delights  of  not  smoking  come  in.  Com- 
pared with  health,  they  are  surely  immaterial  ?  ' 

"  '  Of  course,  I  admit  that' 

"  'Then,  if  you  admit  it,  why  pamper  your- 
self? ' 

"  'I  suppose  because  one  is  weak  in  matters 
of  habit.  You  have  many  cases  like  mine  ? ' 

"  '  I  have  such  cases  every  week,'  he  told  me ; 
'  indeed,  it  was  having  so  many  cases  of  the  kind 
that  made  me  a  specialist  in  the  subject  When  I 
began  practice  I  had  not  the  least  notion  how 
common  the  non-tobacco  throat,  as  I  call  it,  is.' 

"  '  But  the  disease  has  been  known,  has  it  not, 
for  a  long  time  ?  ' 

"  '  Yes,'  he  said ;  ' but  the  cause  has  only  been 
discovered  recently.  I  could  explain  the  malady 
to  you  scientifically,  as  many  medical  men  would 


prefer  to  do,  but  you  are  better  to  have  it  in  plain 
English.' 

"  '  Certainly  ;  but  I  should  like  to  know  whe- 
ther the  symptoms  in  other  cases  have  been  in 
every  way  similar  to  mine.' 

"  '  They  have  doubtless  differed  in  degree,  but 
not  otherwise,'  he  answered.  '  For  instance,  you 
say  your  sore  throat  is  accompanied  by  depres- 
sion of  spirits.' 

"  '  Yes;  indeed  the  depression  sometimes  pre- 
cedes the  sore  throat.' 

"  'Exactly.  I  presume,  too,  that  you  feel  most 
depressed  in  the  evening — say,  immediately  after 
dinner?' 

"  '  That  is  certainly  the  time  I  experience  the 
depression  most.' 

"  '  The  result,'  he  said,  '  if  I  may  venture  on 
somewhat  delicate  matters,  is  that  your  depres- 
sion of  spirits  infects  your  wife  and  family,  even 
your  servants  ? ' 

"  '  That  is  quite  true,'  I  answered.  '  Our  home 
has  by  no  means  been  so  happy  as  formerly. 
When  a  man  is  out  of  spirits,  I  suppose,  he  tends 
to  be  brusque  and  undemonstrative  to  his  wife, 
and  to  be  easily  irritated  by  his  children.  Cer- 
tainly that  has  been  the  case  with  me  of  late.' 

"  'Yes,'  he  exclaimed,  'and  all  because  you 
have  not  carried  out  my  directions.  Men  ought 
to  see  that  they  have  no  right  to  indulge  in  not 
smoking,  if  only  for  the  sake  of  their  wives  and 
families.  A  bachelor  has  more  excuse,  perhaps  ; 
but  think  of  the  example  you  set  your  children  in 
not  making  an  effort  to  shake  this  self-indulgence 
off.  In  short,  smoke  for  the  sake  of  your  wife 
and  family,  if  you  won't  smoke  for  the  sake  of 
your  health,"' 


1/Y  LADY  NICOTINE. 


343 


I  think  this  is  pretty  nearly  the  whole  of  Petti- 
Brew's  story,  but  I  may  add  that  he  left  the  house 
in  depression  of  spirits,  and  then  infected  Jimmy 
and  the  others  with  the  same  ailment,  so  that  they 
should  all  have  hurried  in  a  cab  to  the  house  of 
Dr.  Southwick. 

"  Honestly,"  Pettigrew  said,  "  I  don't  think  she 
believed  a  word  I  told  her." 

"If  she  had  only  been  a  man,"  Harriot  sighed, 
"  we  could  have  got  round  her." 

"  '  How  ? "  asked  Pettigrew. 

"  'Why,  of  course,"  said  Harriot,  "we  could 
have  sent  her  a  tin  of  the  Arcadia. " 


CHAPTER  XXXIL 

MY   LAST   PIPE. 

THE  night  of  my  last  smoke  drew  near  without 
any  demonstration  on  my  part  or  on  that  of  my 
friends.  I  noticed  that  none  of  them  was  now 
comfortable  if  left  alone  with  me,  and  I  knew,  I 
cannot  tell  how,  that  though  they  had  too  much 
delicacy  to  refer  in  my  presence  to  my  coming 
happiness,  they  often  talked  of  it  among  them- 
selves. They  smoked  hard  and  looked  covertly 
at  me,  and  had  an  idea  that  they  were  helping 
me.  They  also  addressed  me  in  a  low  voice,  and 
took  their  seats  noiselessly,  as  if  some  one  were 
ill  in  the  next  room. 

"We  have  a  notion,"  Scrymgeour  said,  with 
an  effort,  on  my  second  last  night,  "that  you 
would  rather  we  did  not  feast  you  to-morrow 
evening  ? " 

"  Oh;  I.  want  nothing  of  that  kind,"  I  aaid 


344  MY  LADY  NICOTINE. 

"So  I  fancied,"  Jimmy  broke  in.  "Thos« 
things  are  rather  a  mockery,  but  of  course  if  you 
thought  it  would  help  you  in  any  way " 

"Or  if  there  is  anything  else  we  could  do  for 
you,"  interposed  Gilray,  "  you  have  only  to  men- 
tion it" 

Though  they  irritated  rather  than  soothed  me, 
I  was  touched  by  their  kindly  intentions,  for  at 
one  time  I  feared  my  friends  would  be  sarcastic. 
The  next  night  was  my  last,  and  I  found  that 
they  had  been  looking  forward  to  it  with  genuine 
pain.  As  will  have  been  seen,  their  custom  was 
to  wander  into  my  room  one  by  one,  but  this 
time  they  came  together.  They  had  met  in  the 
boudoir,  and  came  up  the  stair  so  quietly  that  I 
did  not  hear  them.  They  all  looked  very  sub- 
dued, and  Harriot  took  the  cane  chair  so  softly 
that  it  did  not  creak.  I  noticed  that  after  a  fur- 
tive glance  at  me  each  of  them  looked  at  the  cen- 
ter table,  on  which  lay  my  brier,  Romulus  and 
Remus,  three  other  pipes  that  all  had  their  merits, 
though  they  never  touched  my  heart  until  now, 
my  clay  tobacco-jar,  and  my  old  pouch.  I  had 
said  good-bye  to  these  before  my  friends  came 
in,  and  I  could  now  speak  with  a  comparatively 
firm  voice.  Harriot  and  Gilray  and  Scrymgeour 
signed  to  Jimmy,  as  if  some  plan  of  action  had 
been  arranged,  and  Jimmy  said  huskily,  sitting 
upon  the  hearth-rug : 

"Pettigrew  isn't  coming.  He  was  afraid  ht 
would  break  down." 

Then  we  began  to  smoke.  It  was  as  yet  too 
early  in  the  night  for  my  last  pipe,  but  soon  I  re- 
gretted that  I  had  not  arranged  to  spend  this  night 
alone.  Jimmy  was  the  only  one  of  the  Arcadians 
who  had  been  at  school  with  me,  and  he  was  full 


UY  LADY  KICOTINR. 


345 


ef  reminiscences  which  he  addressed  to  the  other* 
just  as  if  I  were  not  present 

"He  was  the  life  of  the  old  school,"  Jimmy 
said,  referring  to  me,  "and  when  I  shut  my  eyes 
I  can  hear  his  merry  laugh  as  if  we  were  both  in 
knickerbockers  still." 

"What  sort  of  character  did  he  have  among 
the  fellows  ? "  Gilray  whispered. 

"The  very  best.  He  was  the  soul  of  honor, 
and  we  all  anticipated  a  great  future  for  him. 
Even  the  masters  loved  him ;  indeed,  I  question 
if  he  had  an  enemy." 

"I  remember  my  first  meeting  with  him  at  the 
university,"  said  Harriot,  "and  that  I  took  to 
him  at  once.  He  was  speaking  at  the  debating 
society  that  night,  and  his  enthusiasm  quite  car- 
ried me  away." 

"  And  how  we  shall  miss  him  here, "  said  Scrym- 
geour,  "and  in  my  house-boat  1  I  think  I  had 
better  sell  the  house-boat.  Do  you  remember 
his  favorite  seat  at  the  door  of  the  saloon  ? " 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Harriot,  looking  a  little 
scared,  "  I  thought  I  would  be  the  first  of  our  lot 
to  go.  Often  I  have  kept  him  up  late  in  this 
very  room  talking  of  my  own  troubles,  and  little 
guessing  why  he  sometimes  treated  them  a  little 
testily." 

So  they  talked,  meaning  very  well,  and  by  and 
by  it  struck  one  o'clock  A  cold  shiver  passed 
through  me,  and  Harriot  jumped  from  his  chair. 
It  had  been  agreed  that  I  should  begin  my  last 
pipe  at  one  precisely. 

Whatever  my  feelings  were  up  to  this  point  I 
had  kept  them  out  of  my  face,  but  I  suppose  a 
change  came  over  me  now.  I  tried  to  lift  my  brier 
from  the  table,  but  my  hand  shook  and  the  pipe 


346  MY  LADY  NICOTW&. 

tapped,  tapped  on  the  deal  like  an  auctioneer's 
hammer. 

"  Let  me  fill  it,"  Jimmy  said,  and  he  took  my 
old  brier  from  me.  He  scraped  it  energetically 
so  that  it  might  hold  as  much  as  possible,  and 
then  he  filled  it.  Not  one  of  them,  I  am  glad  to 
remember,  proposed  a  cigar  for  my  last  smoke, 
or  thought  it  possible  that  I  would  say  farewell 
to  tobacco  through  the  medium  of  any  other  pipe 
than  my  brier.  I  liked  my  brier  best.  I  have 
said  this  already,  but  I  must  say  it  again.  Jimmy 
handed  the  brier  to  Gilray,  who  did  not  surrender 
it  until  it  reached  my  mouth.  Then  Scrymgeour 
made  a  spill,  and  Harriot  lighted  it.  In  another 
moment  I  was  smoking  my  last  pipe.  The  others 
glanced  at  one  another,  hesitated,  and  put  their 
pipes  into  their  pockets. 

There  was  little  talking,  for  they  all  gazed  at 
me  as  if  something  astounding  might  happen  at 
any  moment.  The  clock  had  stopped,  but  the 
ventilator  was  clicking.  Although  Jimmy  and 
the  others  saw  only  me,  I  tried  not  to  see  only 
them.  I  conjured  up  the  face  of  a  lady,  and  sh« 
smiled  encouragingly,  and  then  I  felt  safer.  But 
at  times  her  face  was  lost  in  smoke,  or  suddenly 
it  was  Marriot's  face,  eager,  doleful,  wistful. 

At  first  I  puffed  vigorously  and  wastefully,  then 
I  became  scientific  and  sent  out  rings  of  smoke 
so  strong  and  numerous  that  half  a  dozen  of  them 
were  in  the  air  at  a  time.  In  past  days  I  had 
often  followed  a  ring  over  the  table,  across  chairs, 
and  nearly  out  at  the  window,  but  that  was  when 
I  blew  one  by  accident  and  was  loath  to  let  it  go. 
Now  I  distributed  them  among  my  friends,  who 
let  them  slip  away  into  the  looking-glass.  I 
think  I  had  almost  forgotten  what  I  was  doing 


MY  LADY  NICO TINE.  347 

and  where  I  was  when  an  awful  thing  happened. 
My  pipe  went  out ! 

"There  are  remnants  in  it  yet,"  Jimmy  cried, 
with  forced  cheerfulness,  while  Gilray  blew  the 
ashes  off  my  sleeve,  Harriot  slipped  a  cushion 
behind  my  back,  and  Scrymgeour  made  another 
spill.  Again  I  smoked,  but  no  longer  recklessly. 

It  is  revealing  no  secret  to  say  that  a  drowning 
man  sees  his  whole  past  unfurl  before  him  like  a 
panorama.  So  little,  however,  was  I,  now  on 
the  eve  of  a  great  happiness,  like  a  drowning 
man,  that  nothing  whatever  passed  before  me. 
I  lost  sight  even  of  my  friends,  and  though 
Jimmy  was  on  his  knees  at  my  feet,  his  hand 
clasping  mine,  he  disappeared  as  if  his  open 
mouth  had  swallowed  the  rest  of  his  face.  I  had 
only  one  thought — that  I  was  smoking  my  last 
pipe.  Unconsciously  I  crossed  my  legs,  and  one 
of  my  slippers  fell  off;  Jimmy,  I  think,  slipped  it 
onto  my  foot.  Harriot  stood  over  me,  gazing 
into  the  bowl  of  my  pipe,  but  I  did  not  see  him. 

Now  I  was  puffing  tremendously,  but  no  smoke 
came.  The  room  returned  to  me,  I  saw  Jimmy 
clearly,  I  felt  Harriot  overhead,  and  I  heard  them 
all  whispering.  Still  I  puffed  ;  I  knew  that  my 
pipe  was  empty,  but  still  I  puffed.  Gilray's 
fingers  tried  to  draw  my  brier  from  my  mouth, 
but  I  bit  into  it  with  my  teeth,  and  still  I  puffed. 

When  I  came  to  I  was  alone.  I  had  a  dim 
consciousness  of  having  been  shaken  by  several 
hands,  of  a  voice  that  I  think  was  Scrymgeour's 
saying  that  he  would  often  write  to  me — though 
my  new  home  was  to  be  within  the  four-mile 
radius — and  of  another  voice  that  I  think  was 
Jimmy's,  telling  Harriot  not  to  let  me  see  him 
breaking  down.  But  though  I  had  ceased  to 


34*  UY  LADY  N1CO  TIX£. 

puff,  my  brier  was  still  in  my  mouth ;  and,  i»- 
deed,  I  found  it  there  when  William  John  shook 
me  into  life  next  morning. 

My  parting  with  William  John  was  almost 
sadder  than  the  scene  of  the  previous  night.  I 
rang  for  him  when  I  had  tied  up  all  my  treasures 
in  brown  paper,  and  I  told  him  to  give  the  tobac- 
co-jar lo  Jimmy,  Romulus  to  Harriot,  Remus 
to  Gilray,  and  the  pouch  to  Scrymgeour.  Will- 
iam John  bore  up  till  I  came  to  the  pouch,  when 
he  fairly  blubbered.  I  had  to  hurry  into  my  bed- 
room, but  I  mean  to  do  something  yet  for  Will- 
iam John.  Not  even  Scrymgeour  knew  so  well 
as  he  what  my  pouch  had  been  to  me,  and  till  I 
die  I  shall  always  regret  that  I  did  not  give  it  to 
William  John.  I  kept  my  brier. 


CHAPTER  XXXIIL 

WHEN  MY   WIFE    IS    ASLEEP    AND    ALL   THE    KOUS1    1C 
STILL. 

PERHAPS  the  heading  of  this  paper  will  deceive 
some  readers  into  thinking  that  I  smoke  nowa- 
days in  camera.  It  is,  I  know,  a  common  jest 
among  smokers  that  such  a  promise  as  mine  is 
seldom  kept,  and  I  allow  that  the  Arcadians 
tempt  me  still.  But  never  shall  it  be  said  of  me 
with  truth  that  I  have  broken  my  word.  I  smoke 
no  more,  and,  indeed,  though  the  scenes  of  my 
bachelorhood  frequently  rise  before  me  in  dreams 
painted  as  Scrymgeour  could  not  paint  them,  I 
am  glad,  when  I  wake  up,  that  they  are  only 
dreams.  Those  selfish  days  are  done,  and  I  see 
that  though  they  were  happy  days,  the  happiness 
was  a  mistake.  As  for  the  struggle  that  is  sup- 


J/y  LADY  NICOTINE.  $49 

posed  to  take  place  between  a  man  and  tobacco, 
after  he  sees  smoking  in  its  true  colors,  I  never 
experienced  it.  I  have  not  even  any  craving  for 
the  Arcadia  now,  though  it  is  a  tobacco  that 
should  only  be  smoked  by  our  greatest  men. 
Were  we  to  present  a  tin  of  it  to  our  national 
heroes,  instead  of  the  freedom  of  the  city,  they 
would  probably  thank  us  more.  Jimmy  and  the 
others  are  quite  unworthy  to  smoke  it ;  indeed,  if 
I  had  my  way  they  would  give  up  smoking  alto- 
gether. Nothing,  perhaps,  shows  more  com- 
pletely how  I  have  severed  my  bonds  than  this  : 
that  my  wife  is  willing  to  let  our  friends  smoke 
in  the  study,  but  I  will  not  hear  of  it.  There 
shall  be  no  smoking  in  my  house ;  and  I  have 
determined  to  speak  to  Jimmy  about  smoking 
out  at  our  spare  bedroom  window.  It  is  a  mere 
contemptible  pretense  to  say  that  none  of  the 
smoke  comes  back  into  the  room.  The  curtains 
positively  reek  of  it,  and  we  must  have  them 
washed  at  once.  I  shall  speak  plainly  to  Jimmy 
because  I  want  him  to  tell  the  others.  They 
must  understand  clearly  on  what  terms  they  are 
received  in  this  house,  and  if  they  prefer  making 
chimneys  of  themselves  to  listening  to  music,  by 
all  means  let  them  stay  at  home. 

Bui  when  my  wife  is  asleep  and  all  the  house 
is  still,  I  listen  to  the  man  through  the  wall.  At 
such  times  I  have  my  brier  in  my  mouth,  but 
there  is  no  harm  in  that,  for  it  is  empty.  I  did 
not  like  to  give  away  my  brier,  knowing  no  one 
who  understood  it,  and  I  always  carry  it  about 
with  me  now  to  remind  me  of  my  dark  past  When 
the  man  through  the  wall  lights  up  I  put  my  cold 
pipe  in  my  mouth  and  we  have  a  quiet  hour 
together. 


3$0  MY  LADY  NICO TINE. 

I  have  never,  to  my  knowledge,  seen  the  man 
through  the  wall,  for  his  door  is  round  the  corner, 
and  besides,  I  have  no  interest  in  him  until  half- 
past  eleven  p.  M.  We  begin  then.  I  know  him 
chiefly  by  his  pipes,  and  them  I  know  by  his  taps 
on  the  wall  as  he  knocks  the  ashes  out  of  them. 
He  does  not  smoke  the  Arcadia,  for  his  temper  is 
hasty,  and  he  breaks  the  coals  with  his  foot. 
Though  I  am  compelled  to  say  that  I  do  not  con- 
sider his  character  very  lovable,  he  has  his  good 
points,  and  I  like  his  attachment  to  his  brier.  He 
scrapes  it,  on  the  whole,  a  little  roughly,  but  that 
is  because  he  is  so  anxious  to  light  up  again,  and  I 
discovered  long  ago  that  he  has  signed  an  agree- 
ment with  his  wife  to  go  to  bed  at  half-past  twelve. 
For  some  time  I  could  not  understand  why  he 
had  a  silver  rim  put  on  the  bowl.  I  noticed  the 
change  in  the  tap  at  once,  and  the  natural  con- 
clusion would  have  been  that  the  bowl  had 
cracked.  But  it  never  had  the  tap  of  a  cracked 
bowl.  I  was  reluctant  to  believe  that  the  man 
through  the  wall  was  merely  some  vulgar  fellow, 
and  I  felt  that  he  could  not  be  so,  or  else  he  would 
have  smoked  his  meerschaum  more.  At  last  I 
understood.  The  bowl  had  worn  away  on  one 
side,  and  the  silver  rim  had  been  needed  to  keep 
the  tobacco  in.  Undoubtedly  this  was  the  ex- 
planation, for  even  before  the  rim  came  I  was  a 
little  puzzled  by  the  taps  of  the  brier.  He  never 
seemed  to  hit  the  wall  with  the  whole  mouth  of 
the  bowl,  but  of  course  the  reason  was  that  he 
could  not  At  the  same  time  I  do  not  exonerate 
him  from  blame.  He  is  a  clumsy  smoker  to  burn 
his  bowl  at  one  side,  and  I  am  afraid  he  lets  the 
stem  slip  round  in  his  teeth.  Of  course,  I  se« 
that  the  mouthpiece  is  loose,  but  a  piece  of  blot- 
ting-paper would  remedy  that 


MY  LAD  Y  NICO  TIttM.  j$  i 

His  meerschaum  is  not  such  a  good  one  as 
Jimmy's.  Though  Jimmy's  boastfulness  about 
his  meerschaum  was  hard  to  bear,  none  of  us  ever 
denied  the  pipe's  worth.  The  man  through  the 
wall  has  not  a  cherry-wood  stem  to  his  meer- 
schaum, and  consequently  it  is  too  light.  A  ring 
has  been  worn  into  the  palm  of  his  left  hand, 
owing  to  his  tapping  the  meerschaum  there,  and 
it  is  as  marked  Jimmy's  ring,  for,  though  Jimmy 
tapped  more  strongly,  the  man  through  the  wall 
has  to  tap  oftener. 

What  I  chiefly  dislike  about  the  man  through 
the  wall  is  his  treatment  of  his  clay.  A  clay,  I 
need  scarcely  say,  has  an  entirely  different  tap 
from  a  meerschaum,  but  the  man  through  the  wall 
does  not  treat  these  two  pipes  as  if  they  were  on 
an  equality.  He  ought  to  tap  his  clay  on  the 
palm  of  his  hand,  but  he  seldom  does  so,  and  I 
am  strongly  of  opinion  that  when  he  does,  it  is 
only  because  he  has  forgotten  that  this  is  not  the 
meerschaum.  Were  he  to  tap  the  clay  on  the 
walls  oron  the  ribs  of  the  fireplace  he  would  smash 
it,  so  he  taps  it  on  a  coal.  About  this  there  is 
something  contemptible.  I  am  not  complaining 
because  he  has  little  affection  for  his  clay.  In 
face  of  all  that  has  been  said  in  honor  of  clays, 
and  knowing  that  this  statement  will  occasion  an 
outcry  against  me,  I  admit  that  I  never  cared  for 
clays  myself.  A  rank  tobacco  is  less  rank  through 
a  church-warden,  but  to  smoke  the  Arcadia 
through  a  clay  is  to  incur  my  contempt,  and 
even  my  resentment.  But  to  disbelieve  in  clays 
is  one  thing  and  to  treat  them  badly  is  another. 
If  the  man  through  the  wall  has  decided,  after 
reflection  and  experiment,  that  his  clay  is  a  mis- 
take, I  say  let  him  smoke  it  no  more ;  but  so  long 


as  he  does  smoke  it  I  would  have  it  receive  con« 
sideration  from  him.  I  very  much  question 
whether,  if  he  reads  his  heart,  he  could  learn  from 
it  that  he  loves  his  meerschaum  more  than  his  clay, 
yet  because  the  meerschaum  cost  more  he  taps 
.  on  his  palm.  This  is  a  serious  charge  to  bring 
against  any  man,  but  I  do  not  make  it  lightly. 

The  man  through  the  wall  smokes  each  of  these 
three  pipes  nightly,  beginning  with  the  brier.  Thus 
he  does  not  like  a  hot  pipe.  Some  will  hold  that 
he  ought  to  finish  with  the  brier,  as  it  is  his  favor- 
ite, but  I  am  not  of  that  opinion.  Undoubtedly, 
I  think,  the  first  pipe  is  the  sweetest ;  indeed  I  feel 
bound  to  make  a  statement  here.  I  have  an  un- 
easy feeling  that  I  never  did  justice  to  meer- 
schaums, and  for  this  reason  :  I  only  smoked  them 
after  my  brier  was  hot,  so  that  I  never  gave  them 
a  fair  chance.  If  I  had  begun  the  day  with  a  meer- 
schaum, might  it  not  have  shown  itself  in  a  new 
light?  That  is  a  point  I  shall  never  be  able  to 
decide  now,  but  I  often  think  of  it,  and  I  leave 
the  verdict  to  others. 

Even  though  I  did  not  know  that  the  man 
through  the  wall  must  retire  at  half-past  twelve, 
his  taps  at  that  hour  would  announce  it.  He  then 
gives  each  of  his  pipes  a  final  tap,  not  briskly  as 
before,  but  slowly,  as  if  he  was  thinking  between 
each  tap.  I  have  sometimes  decided  to  send  him 
a  tin  of  the  only  tobacco  to  smoke,  but  on  the 
whole  I  could  not  undertake  the  responsibility  of 
giving  a  man  whom  I  have  only  studied  for  a 
few  months  such  a  testimonial.  Therefore  when 
his  last  tap  says  good-night  to  me,  I  take  my  cold 
brier  out  of  my  mouth,  tap  it  on  the  mantelpiece, 
cmile  sadly,  and  go  to  bed. 

THE    END. 


A     000115164     e 


